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No. 6 


PRICE, TWENTY-FIVE CENTS. 

THE BIJOU SERIES. 

Published Tri-Weekly. By Subscription, per Year, Thirty Dollars. 

Entered at the New York Post-Office as second-class matter. 


February 27, 1892. 


LOVE’S ATONEMENT. 

BY 


NEW YORK : 

THE F. M. LUPTON PUBLISHING COMPANY, 
No. 65 Duane Street. 



Love’s Atonement; 

OR, 

EXPIATION. 


TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF 

TH. BENTZON." 

7ht*A<JL (pU %*4**i* ) 


New York: 

THE F, M. LUPTON PUBLISHING COMPANY,^ 

No^ 65 Duane Street. J S & N 

/ 



COPYRIGHT, 1892 , By 

THE F. M. LUPTON PUBLISHING COMPANY. 


EXPIATION 



HE Seine in its winding course was 
sparkling under the last rays of a 
bright April sun, when a young man 
stopped on the tow-path in front of the low 
arched gateway of a house that stood on the river 
bank not far from Paris. The house was rather 
commonplace in appearance, and neither elegant 
nor imposing ; but the lack of architectural orna- 
ment was more than supplied by a woodbine 
that was trained over its front, wbfce at the sides 
some cherry trees shook their heads, white with 
their load of blossoms, as if in derision of the 
big trees in the neighboring park, which were as 
yet quite bald. The little terraced garden, a 



I© 


mere basket of hyacinths and violets, was redo- 
lent of Spring ; it was filled with the twittering 
of birds and the buzzing of insects, while a hedge 
of privet and hawthorn sent its penetrating odor 
abroad ; altogether it was quite enough to touch 
the fancy of a young man of twenty. 

Bernard — he knew no other than his bap- 
tismal name, and we will therefore designate 
him by that — Bernard was not much beyond 
this happy age. His face wore an expression of 
thoughtful gravity, which was tempered by that 
unspeakable charm of youth that lasts hardly 
longer than does the down upon the fruit. His 
complexion was as delicate and as changing as 
the complexion of a woman The pallor, that the 
slightest emotion servea ,© dissipate, the trifling 
stoop in the tall form, the rather slow and medi- 
tative gait, together formed an interesting con- 
trast with the proud energy that was displayed in 
the glance of his deep, fearless eye. As he took 
off his hat he disclosed to view a noble forehead, 
but one on which melancholy had already cast a 
shade. A light breeze lifted his tawny locks, and 
the young man stopped to meet its refreshing 
caress, and, like a city man, to whom a country 
holiday is a rare event, he drew in with keen 


Expiation . 


ii 


relish, through ears and nostrils, the music and 
the perfumes of the fields. 

For a long time he remained gazing on the 
river, glowing in the golden light that had been 
blazing in the western sky, but was now slowly 
fading. From one of the little willow-fringed 
islands that dot the bosom of the Seine, pleasant 
little clumps of trees, where one might expect to 
see the foliage part and disclose the smiling face 
of some shy, coquettish Gallic nymph, there came 
forth a row-boat with two persons in it — a fine- 
looking young fellow, who handled the oars, and 
a young girl, of whom all that was plainly distin- 
guishable was a fluttering blue veil, in which the 
wandering dragon-flies entangled themselves. 
The sound of their laughter, the chorus of a 
barcarol, came echoing back from the shore ; 
then, when they had turned a certain point, where 
they thought they were beyond the reach of in- 
quisitive eyes, their heads gravitated together, 
the song was no longer heard, and for a second 
or so, the boat stood motionless under the wil- 
lows. 

A faint tinge of color rose to Bernard’s cheeks 
as he unintentionally witnessed this scene. All 
the entrancing influences of this brightest time of 


Expiation . 


is 


the year — the pleasant warmth of the air, the 
contagious gayety of the season, the occult sym- 
pathy with Nature working among her growing 
trees and flowers — were embodied for him in one 
single name that now escaped through his half- 
parted lips — Rose ! It was hardly more than a 
sigh, and was at once repressed, as if the young 
man had even feared to betray his secret to soli- 
tude. He was much moved, and for an instant 
was silent ; then, “ Why,” said he, “ should I con- 
demn myself to a sterile life ? All these things 
are mine as much as they are another’s. Who 
shall prevent me from enjoying them ? I intend 
to live my life ! ” 

He directed his steps toward the house and 
knocked at the small door. A woman-servant 
came running, and opened with a great show 
of surprise. “ What ! You here to-day, Mon- 
sieur Bernard ? Upon my word, we were not 
expecting you. Are you having a vacation ? A 
fine surprise it will be for Madame. . . . She is 
at church. But come in, come in ! ” 

“ Thank you,” replied the young man. “I 
will wait here under this arbor.” To tell the 
truth, he was glad to have a few minutes in which 
to prepare himself for an interview which he 


Mediation. 


*3 


knew would not be unattended by difficulties. 
“ Go and attend to what you have to do, my good 
Mariette,” he added, seeing that the old servant 
remained standing before him, for fear, as she 
said in her good-natured familarity, that he 
might be lonely all by himself. 

From the bench where he sat he commanded 
a view of the river, the plain, now green as a 
meadow beneath its newly sprouting crop of 
wheat, and the hills beyond with their vineyards 
hazy in the distance. This horizon, limited as it 
was, and the school where he had but just com- 
pleted his studies, comprised all that Bernard 
knew or had seen of the world. As he reflected 
on this an irresistible desire seized him to extend 
his knowledge. It was like the instinct which 
impels the butterfly to burst the cocoon which 
imprisons its wings, the bird to take flight from 
the nest to which it will never return again, the 
craving after liberty that is implanted in the 
breasts of all young, strong things. The fiery 
Spring sunlight had, so to speak, intoxicated him; 
this sudden outbreak of a new life had discon- 
certed all his previous plans and resolutions ; he 
saw them leave him as the last dead leaf, clinging 
to its branch, is borne away by the breeze that 


u 


Expiation. 


causes the new buds to open. His meditations 
were interrupted by a well-known voice at his 
ear. 

“ There is no bad news, I hope ? ” 

The person who addressed him thus was a 
woman who was still beautiful, though her pre- 
maturely gray hair and the simplicity of her 
dress made her look older than she actually was. 
The calm, restful serenity of her countenance 
gave evidence of a spotle^ life and an unruffled 
conscience. Still, however, deep down in her 
large, black eyes, there was a glint of enthusiasm 
which, beneath the devotee, revealed the heroine. 
It may have been the light of some consuming 
love that had been purified into charity through 
the means of some great sacrifice. Every great 
exclusive attachment leaves behind it a void, 
which God alone has the power to fill. It could 
not have been the late M. Desaubiers who was 
responsible for this void, for the poor man's 
whole existence had been nothing but an annoy- 
ance to every one who came in contact with him. 

However that may be, his widow had, nearly 
twenty years ago, renounced the world, or at 
least that moderate portion of it which her small 
fortune and humble rank had ever allowed her to 


Expiation, 


*5 


enjoy. With but slender resources, she still al- 
ways found it in her power to relieve those un- 
fortunates who came to her for assistance. Her 
numerous beneficiaries made quite a large family, 
in which there had been more than one prodigal 
son, gratitude being a virtue that is not universal 
among human kind ; but she always waited 
patiently for these to return, and did not allow 
their misdeeds to work to the prejudice of the 
rest of her flock ; her cheerful optimism would 
not let her believe in the permancy of evil. How 
many times Bernard had been soothed and sus- 
tained by that motherly white hand that now 
rested on his shoulder, while her eyes seemed to 
read the trouble ^that lay in his heart with their 
loving, searching scrutiny. But it was impossible 
to answer that look otherwise than truthfully. 
So when Madame Desaubiers said : “ There is no 
bad news, I hope ? ” Bernard could not answer 
simply yes or no, the confession that he had to 
make being of too complex a character. 

“ I hardly know,” said he, “ what you will think 
about it. Only a little while ago I thought that 
I was coming here to get your advice, but now I 
feel that my mind is made up, and that I shall 
have to make you a plain statement of the case.” 


Expiation. 


1 6 


“ What a serious way of introducing it ! ” 
Taking a seat beside him on the bench, she con- 
trolled her impatience by tightening her clasp 
on the prayer-book, which she held in her hand, 
and waited for him to speak ; then, as he did not 
proceed, “ Ah I ” said she, “ it has been in my 
mind for some time, that you were concealing a 
misfortune from me — or a fault.” 

“ Neither the one nor the other,” replied Ber- 
nard, plucking up his courage. “All there is 
about it, is that I cannot enter the theological 
school.” 

Both were silent, he glad that he had, at last, 
made a breast of it, Madame Desaubiers, evi- 
dently vexed, “ Why ! ” she inquired, “ what ob- 
stacle has arisen ? It was your own wish ; you 
requested it.” 

“ I was not old enough to understand that the 
exercise of these lofty virtues calls for more 
thought than I have at my command. Without 
any constraint you always seemed to prefer that 
I should select this calling, rather than I selected 
it for myself. In a word, my excuse for my mistake 
is, that notwithstanding all your goodness to me, 
I was unhappy ; I thought that I was condemned 
to a life of perpetual isolation. As it is now, I 


Expiation. 


17 


do not know what career to select; but one thing 
I am certain of, I should make a bad priest, and 
the obstacle lies in myself.” 

“ What your superiors tell me does not agree 
with this sudden failure of your resolution,” re- 
marked Madame Desaubiers, “ and I am sorry to 
see you leave so straight and safe a road without, 
I am afraid, giving the matter sufficient consider- 
ation. We shall have to try and find another 
one,” she continued, with a sigh of resignation. 
“ You will find more than one way of employing 
your talents, but the world is pitiless for those 
who face it without the arms and passwords that 
are exacted by custom ; it respects no mystery 
and is careless of susceptibilities. There are 
trials in store for you, my poor child, that God 
would certainly have spared you had you chosen 
to embrace his service. Think of your excep- 
tional position in society, that it pains me to have 
to speak to you of ! ” 

“ I have never forgotten it,” interrupted Ber- 
nard, with deep feeling. “ I know that I have 
nothing to expect from the future, and that for 
the present, I have nothing, not even a name ; 
that I have received by way of charity, that in- 
struction, which I very likely shall not be per- 


Expiation . 


iS 


mitted to make use of, to make for myself a ca- 
reer that will be to my liking. Pardon me, my 
friend, my benefactress,” he exclaimed, suddenly 
curbing himself, struck by the change from se- 
verity to deepest grief expressed on Madame De- 
saubiers’ countenance ; “ the charity which I al- 
luded to so ungratefully, should have been sacred 
to me, since it came to me through your interven- 
tion, but I cannot help detesting the tyranny of 
this unknown father, who would first do all that 
he could to stifle my miserable existence, and 
then would shut me up behind the doors of a 
church or a convent.” 

“ You misunderstand him,” said Madame De- 
saubiers sharply ; “ you attribute to him inten- 
tions which he never had. He was entirely ig- 
norant of the dream with which I have deluded 
myself ; it is on me that your reproaches must 
fall ; he does not know now, and has never 
known anything at all in regard to you.” 

“ Yes, I understand that he furnished you with 
means to do a work of charity, about which he 
himself was quite indifferent. My only obliga- 
tion therefore is to you ; you sat by the bedside 
of my poor mother, and comforted her in her 
last moments, dying, as no doubt she did, of grief 


Expiation, 


*9 


and shame. Oh, that I could but recall her feat- 
ures ! Had she only lived ! — But alas ! what 
could I effect toward making any one happy ! ” 

“ And do you count my happiness as of no 
importance ? ” asked Madame Desaubiers. “ Y ou 
will insure it to me,” continued the good woman, 
as he kissed her with the affection of a son, “ by 
being happy yourself.” 

Again she cast her scrutinizing glance upon 
him. “ What is the main reason,” she inquired, 
“ for your changing your mind as to taking or- 
ders, a step to which you were impelled, as you 
once confessed to me, rather by a feeling of sad- 
ness than by obedience ? How long is it since 
you ceased feeling sad enough to carry out this 
suicide, as you call it, but which I had always re- 
garded as a calling of your own selection ? How 
long have you felt yourself unequal to the virtues 
demanded by eternal celibacy? ” 

The young man gave a start ; Madame 
Desaubiers, in the kindness of her heart, 
had changed the course of the inquiry, but the 
explanations that he was to make in reply to 
her new questions gave him no less trouble than 
the old. 

“For two years perhaps,” he said in a very low 


20 


Expiation . 


voice, not feeling brave enough to confess more 
than a part of the truth. 

“ It was two years ago that Madame Aymes 
and her daughter spent their vacation with us,” 
Madame Desaubiers let fall carelessly, “ but your 
secrets are your own.” 

Bernard cast his eyes down, then quickly rais- 
ing them again : 

“ No,” he exclaimed, (t I will conceal nothing 
from you. I love her. In the beginning I loved 
her as the first of my play-fellows, who showed 
me any kindness, who never hurt my feelings by 
asking inconsiderate questions or getting off bru- 
tal witticisms at my expense. I never told you 
what I have had to suffer from my school-mates 
in this respect, before I even knew the meaning 
of the word shame ! And she was always so even- 
tempered, so amiable, so good-hearted ! I used 
to wait impatiently for the time to come when I 
was to meet her at your house, I felt so peaceful 
and contented where she was ; then suddenly, 
when I met her one vacation time, it was all 
changed. In place of the little girl, who was in 
my thoughts during every day of our long sepa- 
ration, I found a woman whom I hardly dared 
speak to. But to make up for this deprivation* 


Expiation . 


21 


how I watched her, how I admired her ! Her 
tender care for her mother filled me with respect, 
mingled with my feeling of adoration, for she 
is . . . . ” Here Bernard looked inquiringly 
at Madame Desaubiers, who could not help 
smiling. 

“ Is she beautiful, do you think ? ” 

“ Certainly not ; she is not even pretty.” 

“Well, I don’t pretend to know anything about 
it,” continued Bernard, “ but she was the first one 
who ever gave me an idea of what beauty is. I 
shall never forget the day when I saw her for the 
first time as she is now, or rather as she has been 
in my eyes since that time, and I confess that it 
would be very delightful to me to think that no 
one else could ever see her in the same light that 
I do ; that the impression might remain mine and 
mine alone. 

“You were here with your embroidery, under 
this same arbor where we are sitting now ; Rose 
was reading aloud, and I was watching her. It 
was in the height of summer and about mid-day; 
the shadows from the trembling leaves chased 
each other over her face, as it was bent over her 
book. Madame Aymes asked for a skein of silk, 
which she had left in the drawing-room, and be- 


22 


Expiation. 


fore I had fully understood Rose had thrown 
aside her book, and was running toward the 
house. I was ashamed of my slowness of appre- 
hension, as well as of my want of politeness. I 
tried to stop Rose, who was already at a distance; 
I followed her. We raced like two children, she 
ahead and looking back at me with a laughing 
challenge in her eyes, scarcely touching the 
gravel with her flying feet, now disappearing be- 
hind some shrubbery to reappear on the other 
side, her every movement marked by an airy 
grace that is beyond description. Daphne, Atla- 
lanta, Galatea, all the light-footed heroines of the 
metamorphoses were personified in her. Suddenly 
a still more alluring dream took possession of my 
fancy ; it seemed to me that the happiness of all 
my future life was ahead of me, and that I was 
pursuing it ; a mad desire to seize it, and hold it 
in my grasp, lent wings to my feet. I caught up 
with Rose and stayed her with my eager hand ; 
for a second I felt her trembling against my heart, 
which was beating as if it would break, but im- 
mediately the realization of my desire was suc- 
ceeded by an unconquerable terror. During the 
pursuit I had been laying up a store of eloquent 
words that I was anxious to disburthen myself of, 


Expiation. 


23 


without having any very clear idea of what I was 
going to say, and now that I had caught her I 
could not get out a word; in reply to her aston- 
ished look I could with difficulty stammer out 
some ineffectual words of excuse, which seemed 
to divert her exceedingly. Ever since that time 
the same picture has been my companion by 
day and by night, presenting itself as the only 
end, the supreme reward, of whatever I may un- 
dertake. I would like to become wealthy and 
distinguished for her sake,- and I do not under- 
stand how I could have been so near renoun- 
cing all prospects of future happiness in Rose’s 
love, which seemed to me beyond my reach, 
until the day when I clasped it in my arms at 
the same time as Rose herself.” 

“ Yes,” replied Madame Desaubiers thought- 
fully, “ Rose is worthy of a place in your affec- 
tions and also of being the reward of your under- 
takings. But the idea of a reward presupposes 
an effort, and that you have not made so far. 
We must endeavor to deserve everything in this 
world, and we must wait ; it is for the best, for 
often we do not know our own wishes, and 
Providence wisely defers the realization, know- 
ing that man to-day is not the same that 


Expiation . 


n 


he was yesterday. Eclogues are not repeated, 
and while I would not do you injustice, I fear 
that in point of constancy you will be neither 
better nor worse than the rest of mankind.” 

“ There are women to whom it would be im- 
possible to be inconstant ! ” 

“ I have heard that same expression from lips 
that were as truthful as yours, which afterward 
uttered the same vows to other ears ; they have 
forgotten, but I have remembered.” 

“And who could have forgotten you?” ex- 
claimed Bernard, with all the deep sympathy 
that lovers always feel in hearing of a love affair. 

“ It does not make much difference now. All 
that I want to say is, that perhaps Rose some of 
these days will not seem to you the only woman 
in the world worth living for. Have you ever 
spoken to her of the feelings you entertain toward 
her?” 

“ I could not have dared.” 

“ Have you any reason for thinking that she 
understands them, or that she shares them ? ” 

“ She has never given me reason to think that 
she has any other feeling toward me, than a sin- 
cere and kindly friendship,” replied the young 
man with a sigh. 


Expiation . 


2 5 


“Very well; do not let the matter go any farther. 
You would neither of you be justified in con- 
tracting an engagement yet awhile. Rose has 
her mother to take care of, and you have your 
work, which may some day enable you to offer 
her comfort, if not a fortune. I know what you 
are going to say ; that if you had Rose’s word it 
would give you courage and patience, but you 
could not obtain it without disturbing her peace 
of mind; and suppose, after all, her heart holds 
no sentiment stronger than a sisterly love ? You 
need not alarm yourself, my dear child ; I have 
no reason for believing one way or the other. 
You must hope, and if this hope,' indefinite and 
remote as it is, cannot sustain your courage, the 
only reason is that you do not love as - you say 
you do. ” 

This language, at once firm and enthusiastic, 
did not fail to produce its due effect upon Bernard. 
Their talk was prolonged until evening under 
the little arbor, and then, when night came on, 
by lamp-light in the little drawing-room, where a 
thousand plans for the future were taken up and 
discussed one by one. It was decided that, to 
begin with, teaching offered Bernard an imme- 
diate resource, though but a slender one, and 


2 6 


Expiation. 


that he might content himself with this while 
waiting for something better. 


ii. 



UR best actions always have some 
alloy of selfishness. When, some 
years before the time of our story, 
Madame Desaubiers had asked the 
privilege of protecting an orphan child that 
was threatened with abandonment, her charity, 
which was such a nobly distinctive feature of her 
character, was not the only inspiring motive. At 
this time she had just passed through the deci- 
sive crisis of her life, she had made that sacrifice 
that is the most trying one that a woman can 
make, that of a great passion, the only one of 
her life, one of that description that, if it carries 
us into the region of storms, also takes us into 
the land of enchantment. Death seemed easier 
%o her than to descend from so great a height ; 


Expiation . 


27 


still, she did not allow even her love to blind her 
judgment. She knew that if she yielded she would 
forthwith lose all the respect of her admirer, 
one of those cynical men who are eager in pur- 
suit as long as there is opposition, but, as soon as 
their passion is gratified, cast the object remorse- 
lessly to one side. Against being numbered 
among the forgotten, or at least placed on the list 
with those whose conquest had been rather more 
difficult, her only alternative was resistance. Of 
a mind as lofty as it was pure, she aimed at 
occupying a place in this worn-out heart such as 
no one except herself had ever occupied. 

Many another woman, even those high in 
station, would have gladly accepted what she 
rejected. Madame D6saubiers felt the attraction, 
but she triumphed over it. She did not wish to 
make herself disagreeable by reason of her scru- 
ples, her exactions, her complainings, her jeal- 
ousy, and already she was conscious of a bent in 
that direction. She felt that she would become 
irksome to him, and that he would soon tire of 
her, for she knew nothing of the objects and 
interests of a man who, by birth and by ability, 
held a position among the very foremost of the 
earth. Chance had introduced them to each 


28 


Expiation. 


other while on a journey together ; it was prob- 
able that when they separated it would be to never 
meet again. All these things coincided, we may 
believe, in fortifying Madame D6saubiers’ good 
resolution. However that may be, she succeeded 
in avoiding an entanglement, and gave the 
pleasure of an honest friendship to the man who, 
until then, had been the least capable of all men 
of wasting his time in Platonic sublimities. “ It 
would be a pity,” he soon began to think “to 
take away the halo that is so becoming to the 
face of this admirable little bourgeoises The 
feeling of pique that he had experienced at his 
first repulse gave way before the novelty of the 
situation ; he found pleasure in her conversation, 
even without making love to her. As she came 
to question him about his far-off country, his 
adventurous but ill-spent youth, his travels, 
which had carried him to every court of Europe, 
Madame Desaubiers obtained from him confes- 
sions that he never had the slightest idea of 
making even to himself. As a result of these 
conversations, so tender in essentials, so circum- 
spect in form, his cynical precepts and worldly 
maxims were for the nonce laid aside, and be- 
neath his outer shell of perverse waywardness 


Expiation* 


29 


there appeared another being, better, almost 
natural, in* character, whose existence he had 
known nothing of until now. One evening, not- 
withstanding the feeling of pride which com- 
manded him to be silent in regard to such an 
unpleasant recollection, he mentioned the sad 
consequences that had resulted from one of his 
love affairs with a poor girl in humble circum- 
stances. 

“ And you did nothing to repair the wrong ? ” 
timidly asked Madame Desaubiers. 

“ The only reparation that I could make was 
to give the girl a dowry ! ” 

“ And you know nothing as to what happened 
the poor thing afterward ?” 

“ How should I know ? ” 

“ But what became of him, the child ? Your 
own flesh and blood.” 

He shrugged his shoulders, and from his dis- 
dainful lips let fall a merciless expression : 
“ There are no children except those born in 
marriage ! ” 

Conscience is just as likely as not to conceal 
remorse beneath cruel or cynical words, and the 
conscience of this particular man was more un- 
decipherable than any other, Madame D£sau- 


3<3 


Expiation • 


biers, therefore, was not without hope of awaken* 
ing it, and shortly afterward she thought that 
she had succeeded. When the man, whom she 
had compelled to yield her his esteem, was about 
to leave France, he handed her a large sum 
of money for the poor, so that she might act 
vicariously for him in saving his soul, he said. 
The gift and the confession, falling together as 
they did, set our love-lorn devotee thinking. 
She came to the conclusion that she had a 
mission; that she was intrusted with a legacy, 
which she received in silence. Without delay 
she started inquiries as to the whereabouts of 
the child, and took all the steps necessary to 
the accomplishment of a labor which, in her 
fond hopes, was to be a bond of union between 
her and the absent. The sum received for the 
alleviation of general distress was applied to 
the education of little Bernard. 

Soon this little waif was all that remained to 
her to remind her of her short-lived love. The 
man whom she had idolized to such an extent 
that she could even overlook his vices, had now 
attained such a lofty position that he was in- 
accessible to common mortals ; now and again 
Madame D6saubiers saw his name mentioned 


Expiation. 


3 * 


in the newspapers among the diplomatic cor- 
respondence ; ambition seemed to have got the 
better of this Don Juan’s love of pleasure. 
How could he find time in his busy life for 
trivial pursuits ? “ My influence is at work,” 
thought Madame Desaubiers. “ The day will 
come when those more ennobling pursuits in 
which he now finds his pleasure will also pall 
on him ; when, satiated with fame and honors, 
he will regret that he has not a child worthy 
of him to perpetuate his name ; then — who 
knows?” She looked at Bernard and noted 
with joy his increasing resemblance to his father. 
The boy was well endowed with qualities both 
of head and heart, and she made a mental 
vow that she would spare no severity toward 
him, if that were required, to fit him for a high 
position. Could there be any better reward 
for her old-time sacrifice than to compel the 
father to recognize the intervention of Provi- 
dence, and, at the same time, secure for the child 
the worldly position from which he had been 
debarred by our unjust social system? 

Madame Desaubiers thought not, and hoped 
that God would recompense her in this way. 

While she was deluding herself with these 


33 


Expiation. 


idle speculations, she received a letter which 
showed their emptiness. It was a stiff, awk- 
wardly framed letter, for it would puzzle the 
most ingenious of men to tell the woman whom 
he once loved that he is about to be mar- 
ried and not feel some embarrassment. He 
dwelt at length on the reasons of expediency 
that urged him to the step, particularly on the 
duty that was incumbent on him of keeping 
the family name alive ; but what mattered it 
to her ? She only knew that he was to be mar- 
ried. She could have shed bitter tears in think- 
ing how hopeless Bernard’s fate was likely to 
be after this. What was she to do with this 
poor soul that was thus outlawed from society 
and deprived of all family ties in the name of 
morality, whom his own father could not assist 
without prejudice to his legitimate affections ? 
She sought advice in prayer and was pleased 
when Bernard, prompted by her wishes, evinced 
a disposition to study for the church ; how her 
plans had been upset by her pupil’s rejection 
of them at this late day we have already seen. 

When he at last left her, after a long discus- 
sion, with her approbation of his newly formed 
plans* Madame Desaubiers, greatly annoyed by 


Expiation , 


33 


the misunderstanding into which she had fallen, 
resolved to leave matters in stronger hands than 
hers, and entrust the direction of events to God. 
The turn which they were taking, moreover, was 
not repugnant to a natural predilection of her 
sex; second only to the pleasure of being loved, 
there is nothing that affords a woman keener 
delight than to be the confidant of the love of 
others. Bernard, she said to herself, had made 
a happy selection of the object on which to fix 
his affections. Strengthened, as she had been, 
by her brave struggle with adversity, Rose 
Aymes would be an assistant to him, rather than 
a hindrance or a burthen. An absolute forget- 
fulness of self, united to a deep-seated idea of 
duty, formed her distinguishing characteristics. 
From her earliest days she had learned to rely 
on her own efforts, without, however, valuing 
them too highly, and this is the best moral train- 
ing that a human being can receive, although it 
is not generally applied to women, whose in- 
feriority may perhaps be accounted for by this 
reason. Her mother had been Madame Desau- 
biers’ friend at boarding-school, and was the 
widow of an officer who had met an honoraVe 
death in battle while still young; her slender 


34 


Expiation . 


pension would not have supported her had not 
Rose supplemented it by the product of her un- 
ceasing daily labor. The idea of marriage, or 
of making herself attractive to young men, had 
never entered her head ; it is true that if she 
had been told in so many words that she was to 
be an old maid, her feelings would have been 
shocked, but she never gave the matter a thought. 
Her sole object was her mother ; to provide 
food for her for the day, and to smooth away 
from her face the brooding care for the morrow, 
a shadow that had rested there and been a cause 
of sorrow to her from her earliest childhood, and 
the effort that she was compelled to make to 
attain this end, lowly as it was, appeared to 
absorb her every faculty, to the exclusion of 
all other matters. 


Expiation. 


35 


III. 


DAME AYMES and her daughter 
had a little garret apartment in a 
house in the Luxembourg quarter, 
where everything indicated their poverty, as well 
as the elegance of their tastes. The faded, moth- 
eaten furniture was perfectly clean. A few 
pieces, remnants of days when they had been 
better off, contrasted with the nakedness of the 
work-room, where from morning until evening 
Rose plied her trade of painting little pictures on 
enamel. She had her daily bread to gain, a care 
which engrosses the attention of so many artists 
of the humbler rank. Bernard was accustomed 
to go there to spend some of the few leisure mo- 
ments that were allowed him from his new and 
rather distasteful duties. “ When,” he would 
say to himself, looking at Rose, “ Oh ! when 
shall I have it in my power to stop the activity 
of that slender hand, to bring back the fresh 



3 ^ 


Expiation* 


color of youth to that cheek ; to say to her, in a 
word, rest ! ” 

She evidently would be glad to see him, and 
without interrupting her work, would motion him 
to a chair by her side with a pleasant nod of her 
head. Sometimes she would lay down her 
brushes to attend to some household duty, which 
she would do without any false shame, with a 
modest dignity that was all her own, and that 
prevented any action of hers from ever appearing 
unworthy. As she worked she would laugh and 
talk. It was wonderful that her mother’s per- 
petual whining had not destroyed her faculty of 
being amused and entertained. Under their re- 
peated reverses, Madame Aymes had given way 
to a kind of unhealthy apathy, whereas the same 
trials had only served to' stimulate Rose’s power 
of nervous resistance. Things of the smallest 
consequence appeared to the elder lady in a dole- 
ful or terrific light. She spent her time in la- 
menting the past and bewailing the future, while 
she took delight in multiplying imaginary troubles 
in her daughter’s path, instead of helping her to 
clear away those which already existed there in 
greater number than they should have done. 
With all this, however, she was very fond of 


Expiation • 


3 ? 


Rose. Her disposition to melancholy had been 
aggravated by severe illness in early life. But 
Rose took everything cheerfully, and allowed 
nothing to disturb the serenity which she had put 
on like a shield. Her judgment was sound and 
she abounded in resources. She had a ^vvay of 
looking things in the face that was at once firm 
and humorous ; and she had the faculty of dis- 
cerning at a glance what was possible or reason- 
able, and acting accordingly, without more 
trouble to herself than if the matter in hand had 
been merely some whim of fancy. She ac- 
knowledged to herself, however, that she had one 
cherished wish : to devote herself seriously to 
the study of art, in which she had, so far, under 
the stress of circumstances, received just suffi- 
cient instruction to earn a scanty living from it. 

“ The main thing, in the first place,” she said 
to Bernard one evening, as her mother sat sleep- 
ing in her chair with her knitting in her hand, 
“ is to try and place myself on a footing of inde- 
pendence. Shall I ever attain that indepen- 
dence ? Shall I ever rise, as I feel that I have it 
in me to do ? Shall I ever become a painter, or 
must I always remain what I am, a mere me* 
chanic, or little better ? u 


3* 


She pushed away from her, rather resentfully, 
the basket which she was ornamenting with 
figures in arabesque. 

“ Talent enobles whatever it touches, and you 
are showing a great deal of it in these worthless 
trifles. You will attain success, even by the 
very thorny path which you are obliged to follow, 
and which I would so gladly make smooth for 
you if it were in my power.” 

“ Thank you ; but do not flatter. I am not 
aiming at success, but at perfection, and I shall 
never reach it, going on in this way. I have a 
great secret,” said she, lowering her voice : “ I 
have almost finished a flower-piece for the expo- 
sition. I have not told mother about it ; I ex- 
pect that it will be rejected, and she would feel 
too badly. I shall not allow myself to be dis- 
couraged. I will make another effort.” 

“You are over-taxing your strength.” 

“Oh! If I could only be successful! It 
seems to me that I could wish for nothing beyond 
that.” 

“Nothing?” said the young man interro- 
gatively.”" 

She reflected a moment, and answered, as she 
resumed her painting, “ Nothing ! ” 


Expiation. 


39 


“ Have you never thought that you might marry 
some day ?” 

“ Nobody ever marries a poor girl, so they say.” 

“ A person like you is not poor. Whatever her 
fortune may be, she brings with it more than 
any one can give in return.” 

“ What you mean, I suppose, is that she will 
always be able to supply her own wants ? ” 

“ I mean nothing of the sort,” replied Bernard, 
with emphasis. “ When I marry, my wife must 
be willing to be dependent on me for everything.” 

“You are selfish,” said Rose, laughingly. “I 
shall insist on my husband allowing me to make 
good use of my time and be of assistance to him.” 

“If I am selfish, you are proud, Rose.” 

“ Oh ! no, I am not, for I shall be very glad to 
accept at his hands the greatest of all favors, 
only let him suffer me to do my work after my 
own fashion.” 

“ And what kind of a man do you think he will 
be, this husband who will come and set your 
genius free ? ” 

“ Who thinks ? Who has time to dream ? ” 
exclaimed Rose, joyously. “ But when the time 
comes, I will give the matter serious considera- 
tion, I assure you,” 


40 


Expiation. 


“ I suppose you will consult your friends as 
well? You would not scorn my advice, for in- 
stance ?” 

“ That would be ungrateful. You have always 
treated me kindly.” 

“ Then it is a promise,” said Bernard in a 
voice that trembled with emotion. “ You agree 
never to bestow your hand on any one without 
first telling me ? ” 

Rose looked over toward her mother ; her 
eyes were still closed in the most confiding, the 
sincerest of slumbers. 

“ What an idea,” she replied, blushing, with- 
out knowing why she did so. 

“ Then you won’t promise ? ” 

“ Oh yes ; it is a bargain ; I won’t marry with- 
out your consent. I scarcely think that I shall 
have to come to you, however ; who would ever 
want to have me ? ” 

Bernard came very near speaking his mind 
that evening, and Madame Aymes’ awakening, 
happening as it did, just at this point, perhaps 
was timely. After this time, his visits were less 
frequent ; in the pleasure of their increasing in- 
timacy, in the strong desire that he felt of assur- 
ing himself of the possession of a treasure that 


Expiation. 


41 


he had gazed on so often and so closely that 
. he had come to covet it, he was fearful that he 
might not be true to the promise which he had 
given Madame Desaubiers. The two young peo- 
ple, however, met quite frequently at this lady’s 
house in the country, and as she looked at them 
from her window, walking side by side along the 
trim little garden paths, with their borders of 
box, she reflected that whatever the future might 
have in store for Bernard, he certainly could 
have no better mentor for the present moment. . 

In fact, there was a renewal of those innocent 
Sunday interviews that he used to look forward 
to as a compensation for the fatigues and trials 
of all the week. In the intervals, too, Rose's 
image was present with him continually. This 
was so far from interfering with his studies that 
it kept him at work until late at night. The 
position he had accepted, it is unnecessary to say, 
was only a stepping-stone to something better, 
and in his waking dreams he saw Rose smiling 
to him from the heights which were yet for him 
to gain, standing by his side in time of peril, caus- 
ing him now and then to blush for follies which 
the best of young men cannot always entirely 
avoid, and inspiring him with scorn for the sneers 


42 


Expiation . 


of some old companions, who had dubbed him 
the Seminarist . 

If Bernard had found a guardian in Rose, 
Rose had found happiness through Bernard. 
Her mother noticed a change in her that she 
could not account for. Madame Desaubiers was 
clearer of vision, and understood why it was that 
Dame Wisdom, as she called her, was growing 
prettier ; she knew what it is that brings the sun- 
shine to eyes that before were dull, what causes 
the blood to course more rapidly beneath the 
transparent skin and show itself in the mantling 
cheek, what adds grace and dignity to the bear- 
ing and beauty to the features. Madame De- 
saubiers now understood why it was that Bernard 
had thought her charming ; she had been so in 
his eyes before any one else had discovered it, 
or rather, perhaps, she was indebted to him 
for this unexpected beauty, more radiant than 
any other, which defies conventional rules of criti- 
cism and is only the ingenuous outward expres- 
sion of an inward state of well-being. Her artis- 
tic talent, too, was developing under the impulse 
of new hopes. A few days after that evening 
when Bernard had made her promise that she 
would not dispose of herself without first consult- 


Expiation . 


43 


ing him, he received a letter from Rose, the only 
one she had ever written him. “ I have some- 
thing to tell you,” said she, “ that is better than 
the finest marriage; my picture has been accepted 
at the Salon. ” 

It was a short note, written in a large, child- 
ish hand, and had none of the polite expressions 
or commonplace amenities that result from prac- 
tice of the epistolary style. Rose seldom had 
occasion to write, and could not boast of any ele- 
gance in the art. In order that her joy might be 
complete, she had desired to share it with a friend. 

Three simple words, however, the very last 
ones : “ I am yours,” carried the young man 
away into a world of blissful dreams. 

The flower-piece received some notice at the 
Exposition and was sold for a good price. Rose 
could now look forward to the time when she 
might be able to give up her make-shift of paint- 
ing fans and bon-bon boxes ; in the mean time 
her skill in manufacturing these baubles, her 
delicate taste, her nicety of coloring, her correct 
drawing, made quite a demand for them among 
the shop-keepers. Day by day her situation 
was improving. 

The case was not the same with Bernard, 


44 


Expiation. 


who, weary of the irksome and ill-paid work 
that he had accepted provisorily, could see 
no definite career before him. Brought up with 
a view to the church, and with a good solid basis 
of instruction, outside, however, of the university 
routine where any career lies open to a man, 
provided he has the due number of diplomas, he 
had devoted himself to philology and had culti- 
vated literature without profit so far : any one 
who respects his pen cannot hope to live. Many 
places were mentioned to him that he might have 
filled creditably, but not one of them was given 
to him. In the Autumn of this year a promising 
offer came to him unexpetedly ; a great foreign 
nobleman, Count Yolonzoff, wanted a preceptor 
for his son, to accompany him in his travels, 
which were made necessary by the state of the 
boy’s health. 

“ It will be hard to find the right man,” he 
wrote from Italy. “ A mere book-worm would 
not answer. We need a man really distinguished 
for his learning, who, while making due allow- 
ance for the physical weakness of his pupil, shall 
be able to impart to his keen intelligence the 
aliment which it requires in a judicious manner. 
Moreover, he must be a man of feeling, for he 


Expiation. 


45 


will have to do with a mind that is not quite 
right, and he will have to face an irremediable 
calamity. He must be prepared for this. I 
know that I am asking a great deal : conscience, 
devotion, sensibility. They are qualities that I, 
for my part, have never placed any dependence 
upon, but I want to believe in their existence to- 
day, for the welfare of my son is at stake.” M. 
Volonzoff’s attorney knew Bernard. “ Accept,” 
he said to him. “ You will have an opportunity 
to travel, which every young man ought to avail 
himself of when it is presented to him.^ You 
will improve your manners by contact with per- 
sons of refinement. Your intelligence will open 
and bear fruit, while here it will be crushed 
down, and finally destroyed by your daily re- 
curring struggle with want. You will be well 
cared for by the Count, who, I may tell you, is 
an extremely kind-hearted man. And you will 
have plenty of leisure. Your pupil will require 
the services of his physician much more than 
those of his preceptor. He is said to be a very 
unattractive invalid, but you will become at- 
tached to him through compassion. You are 
good-hearted and — don't deny it — a little ro- 
mantic. These two qualities are often counted 


4$ 


Expiation. 


as defects, but they will be of service to you 
here. Besides, you are not entering on a con- 
tract that cannot be cancelled. Go and pass the 
winter under Italian orange trees. Perhaps you 
will then make up your mind to stay longer. 
The salary is extremely liberal.” 

Bernard was aware of all these advantages, 
but the reverse of the medal appealed to him 
still more strongly. He would have to part 
from Rose. When he first mentioned this dis- 
tressing subject to her, they were walking to- 
gether at Madame Desaubiers’. He was slowly 
strolling on the bank of the Seine, under the 
yellowing trees, idly pushing away with his foot 
the dead leaves that strewed their path. The 
harvests were all in, including the vintage. 
Here and there, from the closely shorn fields, 
a little curl of smoke arose, gray on a gray sky. 
Rose turned very pale, but after a moment’s 
hesitation, during which she seemed to be chok- 
ing down her feelings, she answered: “You 
must listen to the dictates of reason and obey.” 

“ Even if it goes directly opposite to my feel- 
ings ? ” 

There was a renewal of silence. 

“So then you advise me to go away?” said 


Expiation . 


47 


Bernard, in a tone that was almost one of re- 
proach. 

She turned her head away. He felt hurt by 
her unconcerned way of taking it, and did not 
see that her eyes were suffused with tears. At 
length Rose murmured : 

“ You will have a chance to see the world — ” 

The change in her voice made him start ; her 
efforts had been unavailing ; the tears were com- 
ing down. 

“ I shall find nothing in the world so dear 
as what I am leaving here,” said he, taking 
her hand with sudden warmth, “ and as it is for 
your sake that I am going away, so I shall return 
to you.” 

As if bereft of her senses, the young girl 
scarcely dared to believe her ears. Bernard said 
nothing more. Perhaps he had said too much 
as it was, only he retained her hand in his. They 
both had stopped, their eyes fixed on the water, 
which ran by in its silent course. To them it 
seemed to reflect the brightest, purest blue of 
spring, instead of October’s leaden sky, and to 
quiver with all the emotions which were agitat- 
ing their own breasts. For the following mo- 
ments they felt no need of speaking nor even of 


4 § 


Expiation. 


thinking ; the present was all sufficient for them. 
The leaves that had been rustling but an instant 
since were quiet. The wind also held its breath 
for a space. 

“ Rose ! ” said Bernard, softly. 

She looked at him through tears that were 
more joyful than smiles. No vows were spoken. 
What would they have served ? 

Madame Aymes, who was behind them with 
Madame Desaubiers, here joined them. Rose 
asked her mother to take her arm for the re- 
mainder of the walk, and Bernard, profiting by 
his ensuing tete-a-tete with Madame Desaubiers, 
without further preface, announced his intention 
of taking a tutor’s position abroad. At the name 
of Count Volonzoff Madame Desaubiers drew 
back as if she had been struck. She made him 
repeat it a second time. 

“ Impossible ! ” she cried. 

u You are acquainted with the name ? ” asked 
Bernard, also very much surprised. 

“ How should I know it ? ” she said, hesitating. 

“ Where, then, is the impossibility ? ” 

“ You will subject yourself to an intolerable 
restraint. Preceptor ! Why, the position is not 
far removed from that of a domestic.” 


Expiation. 


49 


“ I am promised the greatest consideration. 
If they attempt to tyrannize, I can easily show 
that I am a free man by giving leg bail.” 

“ But Rose ! ” 

“ Do not rob me of my courage,” said Ber- 
nard, mournfully. “ It will be better for both 
her and me that we should be separated until 
the time comes when we can be united.” 

Madame Desaubiers raised her hands toward 
Heaven, irresolutely, as if distracted by doubts 
and fears ; then, letting them fall again, Thy 
will be done, my God ! ” she mentally eja- 
culated. 

Two weeks afterward Bernaad took his de- 
parture for Italy. 


Expiation. 


5 ° 


IV. 


BERNARD TO MADAME D^SAUBIERS. 

Sestri, Oct. 29th. 

HE few lines that I sent Rose upon 
my arrival here, in order that you 
both might know that the journey 
had been accomplished in safety, must have left 
you hungry for more details. Take them, then. 
I will try to give them in due order, so as to omit 
nothing. And in the first place, I am as contented 
as could be expected. Above all I am pleased 
with the country ; not that Sestri is the finest 
place along this wonderful Corniche road, that 
fairly dazzled me for two days with its beauty. 
Here the country is dry. Not a drop of that 
rain which was coming down in torrents when I 
left you has fallen to wash the pebbles in the 
Polcevera, and you can walk dry shod in the 
very bed of the stream. Too much dust, too 
many rocks. But then they have a way of turn- 



Expiation . 


5 1 


ing the rocks into gardens by means of a revised 
edition of Armida's art ; and if trees obstinately 
refuse to grow there, very well — they paint 
them on the hard stone in such a way as to de- 
ceive the eye, and this fantastic kind of vegeta- 
tion has a merit of its own ; it reconciles us to 
the practice of lying. And then we can afford 
to overlook their drought and their execrably 
bad taste, for we have the Mediterranean, its 
deep, transparent blue meeting the tender blue 
of the sky, bearing on its bosom, like so many 
stately swans, a fleet of vessels that are making 
sail toward France. Then, toward the left, in 
the distance, is outlined the splendid amphi- 
theatre of the city of palaces, with its forts and 
its ramparts climbing up the steep rock ; its 
marble porticos, the spires and domes of its hun- 
dred churches, its peerless harbor with its forest 
of masts, the whole confused and blended to- 
gether by the effect of distance, like a mirage. 
How Rose would delight in these beauties of 
form and color ; fit subjects for her brush to in- 
terpret. I wish that I might have both you and 
her, whom I love so well, here to share my en- 
joyment. 

Among the villas whose blooming terraces 


5 * 


Expiation. 


descend to the margin of the sea, that of the 
Count is one of the most elegant. His gardens 
are full of mystery and enchantment, and make 
one think of Tasso’s. Everything in them is 
calculated to deceive the senses ; artificial 
caverns, fountains spouting forth their streams 
in unnatural and distorted shapes, make-believe 
ruins that on one side present the appearance of 
a feudal castle, and on the other, a thatched cot- 
tage, a gilded bark floating on a lake that fills as 
if by virtue of an enchanter’s wand ; all in imita- 
tion of the famous Villa Pallavicini, which is not 
far from here. The house is in the same style ; 
it is painted pink, like a coquettish woman, and 
its magnificent staircase, lined with orange trees, 
gives it a charming appearance. I modestly 
slipped in through one of the small entrance 
ways, after having seen my trunk safely mounted 
on the sturdy shoulders of one of the numerous 
porters, who are always on hand to supply the 
needs of travelers. One of the higher servants — a 
kind of steward — met me with excuses ; they had 
not expected me so soon, but my apartment was 
ready ; would it please me to retire to it ? I was 
very glad to have an opportunity of ridding my- 
self of the dust of travel, so I was conducted 


Expiation. 


S3 


with much ceremony to a chamber so large and 
so elaborately decorated, that I have not as yet 
succeeded in making myself feel at home in it. 
Scarcely had I changed my clothing when I 
heard a tap at my door. On opening there 
appeared before me a tall, well-made man of 
distinguished appearance. His lofty forehead 
was destitute of hair, the delicate regularity of 
his features announced his high birth, he was 
inclined to paleness, his resolute, firm lips, while 
they showed that they were accustomed to com- 
mand, parted in a charming smile. It was the 
Count. With the greatest politeness he enquired 
if I had been furnished with everything for my 
comfort, then taking a seat with an air of unas- 
suming good nature, which, as I afterward 
discovered, by no means prevents him from 
making every one feel the immeasurable distance 
that there is between himself and other mortals, 
he proceeded, in a conversational tone, to put 
me through a kind of examination. In doing 
this, his questions displayed much judgment. 
Whether his opinion of me was favorable or the 
reverse, I could not tell ; he allowed no sign to 
escape him. When his tongue had ceased its 
utterances, he continued to question me with 


54 


Expiation. 


his eye, and I can give no idea in words of the 
power that lay in that glance. Unless when 
aroused, his eyes are dark gray, and convey to 
you an idea of disdainful indifference ; there is 
no fire in them and they have a deadened look, 
like those of a wild animal composing himself to 
rest ; in conversation they light up with an 
expression of cold, clear intelligence, which 
causes other people a. most disagreeable feeling 
of inferiority, and at once freezes up any dispo- 
sition toward enthusiasm or gush. What is the 
use ? this look of his seems to say ; there is noth- 
ing that we can discuss that is worth the heat 
of an argument. Still, the Count is always 
ready enough to argue, and he keeps his con- 
versational claws sharp in this way, as we some- 
times draw a sword that has been consigned 
to the scabbard and fence a little with it to keep 
it from growing rusty. But I am anticipating. 
Toward me his manner was one of exquisite 
courtesy. The undefined feeling of scorn and 
distrust that mankind in general, I suppose, in- 
spire him with, is concealed beneath the cloak 
of this superficial and irresistible charm of his ; 
for my part, however, I should prefer more 
kindness of heart. He can make his smile, his 


Expiation. 


55 


manners, his language very captivating when he 
sets out to do so, but beneath it all there can 
be noticed by a close observer that he is acting 
from a set determination, and he makes one 
wish that he would let his mask fall and show us 
a natural human countenance, whether it be 
grave or gay, nay, even disagreeable. I must 
acknowlege, however, that he allowed the mask 
to fall in speaking of his son ; the measured 
tones of his voice vibrated with a mournful in- 
flection. 

“ I will make you acquainted with your pupil,” 
said he. “ Monsieur X. has doubtless spoken to 
you of him, but I must again beg you to guard 
yourself against any expression of surprise, if you 
find him unlike other children ; he would not 
fail to notice it, and it would add an additional 
pang to all the suffering which we are vainly en- 
deavoring to spare him.” 

Before I could reply, he raised a curtain that 
hung before a door, and I immediately found 
myself in the presence of young Dimitri, as he 
is called. 

A misshapen little creature was reclining on 
a couch near an open window. Judging from 
his form, as he lay under the luxurious covering 


Expiation, 


5 & 


that concealed it, he might be a child six or 
seven years old, but his face was wrinkled, sal- 
low and faded, and his cheek bones were promi- 
nent. The latter defect, which is to be found 
among most all the Slavonian types, is also no- 
ticeable to a certain extent in his father, but 
modified by the harmony of the other features, 
to which it adds an expression of firmness that is 
almost leonine, while in the case of the boy it 
adds to the grotesque, repulsive uglinesss of a 
face that might pass for that of a malevolent 
genie. The only expression visible on his coun- 
tenance, as I looked on it, was one of the most 
sulky ennui. He was playing at dominos upon 
a low table that stood between him and a very 
light complexioned, spectacled young man in 
black, who, as we drew near, arose from his chair, 
and remained standing in an attitude of severe 
obsequiousness. The boy, without otherwise 
stirring, turned upon me a glance in which I de- 
ciphered the dread of that compassion which 
strangers are accustomed to extend to him, and 
which is extremely repugnant to him. I felt that 
the Count was also watching me, actuated by the 
same feeling, and that he was anxious to see how 
I would pass through the ordeal. I drew near 


Expiation. 


57 


and extended my hand with a smiling face. Be- 
fore giving me his own, the child cast a meaning 
glance upon his poor, lean, long, knotted fingers, 
and then placed them regretfully in mine, at the 
same time saluting me with an inclination of 
his enormously large head, which, with its shock 
of yellow hair, certainly has much to do with his 
grotesque appearance. 

“We will leave you to become acquainted 
with each other,” said the Count, nodding affec- 
tionately to his son. “Are you coming, doctor?’* 

The young man of the spectacles bowed and 
retired with his employer, and I was left alone 
with my queer pupil. As it would have been 
rather difficult to engage him in conversation, 
I made up my mind to take up the game of dom- 
inos that had been interrupted by my entrance. 
When I proposed this to him, not prefacing my 
offer by any remarks : 

“ It will be of no use, sir,** he replied ; “ I 
always win. You can see that Doctor Scharf 
has already nearly, if not quite, lost the game.** 

“ I don't think that you will get the better of 
me so easily,” said I, as I laid down a piece. 

“ We’ll see!’* 

I had no trouble in winning the first game* 


Expiation, 


58 


although it was already half lost. He played 
badly, and was inattentive ; still my success 
seemed to astonish him, while at the same time 
it afforded him pleasure- 

“ That is something like,” he exclaimed. 
“ Monsieur Scharf thinks that I do’nt see that he 
loses on purpose.” 

From the commencement of our acquaintance, 
he had a higher esteem for me than for the doc- 
tor. I resolved to follow up my advantage, and 
beat him another game, although he applied him- 
self more closely, feeling that the contest was in 
earnest. 

“ Really,” said I, “ you are old enough to play 
a better game than you do.” 

This struck him as being very funny ; he smiled 
as a little East Indian despot might have done 
when some one had ventured to be familiar. 

“ How old do you think I am ? ” 

“ Possibly you are ten.” 

“Yes, I am ten years past. But you are the 
first one who ever took me to be as old as I 
actually am.” 

“You must be pretty well up in your studies ?” 
I continued, determined to treat him just as I 
would treat any other child. 


Expiation. 


59 


“No,” said he with a mournful shake of the 
head. “ I hardly know a thing, though for the 
last three years I have had instructors in every 
city where we have spent the winter : Rome, 
Naples, Florence.” 

I interrupted him to say that he was very for- 
tunate to have been able to visit such delightful 
places. 

“ You think that I am fortunate ? Really ? 
And have you never travelled ? Why not ? ” 

“ Because I am poor.” 

You will understand, my dear friends, that I 
made this confession as to my poverty with great 
reluctance, for poverty ceases to be respectable 
when stripped of its cloak of dignified reserve, 
but in order to make the evils of the poor child’s 
life appear more endurable to him, I had to 
bring to his notice misfortune in another form. 
My efforts at consolation, however, proved un- 
availing. 

“ Poor ! ” he repeated, slowly, as if he failed 
to catch the meaning of the word. “ Poor ! ” 
and here his accent betrayed a feeling of envy. 
“ I have often seen poor people ; they could walk 
and run, they were strong and healthy. When 
we came here from Genoa, there was a little boy 


6 © 


Expiation. 


who followed our carriage, running on his hands 
and turning somersaults. How I would have 
liked to change places with him ! But no one 
would care to change places with me/' 

As our conversation seemed to be running 
into a rather dangerous groove, I changed it 
by asking him what his masters had taught him. 

“A little history — but I can't endure history ! 
I cannot read the stories of battles, or of activity 
of any kind, without thinking how helpless I am, 
and that I am unlike other people and shall 
never be able to achieve anything. Then I studied 
Latin a while, but that gave me the head- 
ache and bored me besides. I am very easily 
bored," said he, watching me out of the corner 
of his eye. 

“ I am quite sure that we shall get along to- 
gether without boring each other," said I in an 
off-hand manner. 

At this my pupil uttered a little exclamation 
expressive of doubt, almost of defiance, but I 
had an answer ready. Passing into the adjoin- 
ing room, I took from my trunk an herbarium 
and a few mineral specimens. You have seen 
them and know that they are no great treasures, 
but never did a fairy’s store of wonders produce 


Expiation. 


61 


a greater effect. These poor remains of com- 
mon-plac^ plants, that had been gathered in our 
walks as souvenirs, rather than as specimens of any 
value, were the first that the poor little sick boy 
had ever seen preserved in this manner. He is 
passionately fond of flowers, and the idea that 
their frail lives might be prolonged was one that 
appealed strongly to his imagination. I had to 
explain to him that a penknife, a magnifying 
glass and a few sheets of coarse, gray paper were 
all that was required to work this miracle, and 
then proceeded to analyze the different parts 
of the flower, demonstrating the structure of 
those which I displayed before him, telling him 
their names and whence they came, and giving 
detailed information upon each specimen. All 
scientific jargon and pedantic nomenclature were 
carefully eliminated from this first lesson in 
botany. There is an excellent principle in edu- 
cation which I endeavor to keep constantly 
before me : that to instruct children, you have 
only to see that they have a clear perception of 
what you place before their eyes. I intend that 
this child shall find natural objects so interesting 
as to induce forgetfulness of self, or if not, then 
patience and resignation. He seems already to 


62 


Expiation . 


have been very much impressed by the thought 
that the plants which have most the healing in 
them are not the brightest or most beautiful. 

“ We will collect a magnificent herbarium in 
the Alps, where I am to pass the summer,” he 
joyfully said to me. “ I have always hated them 
so, but now I shall like them better/' 

“ What, the Alps?” 

“ Why, yes. Can’t you understand how one 
wants to climb the mountains when they stand 
there so temptingly before you ? Here, on the 
other hand, you are shut in by the sea ; the 
world seems to end at Sestri, and I am not 
tormented by dreams of mountain-climbing, from 
which I awake only to find myself a prisoner in 
my bed.” 

“ Never mind ; you shall climb mountains 
some time. We will go together, and you shall 
make up for lost time.” 

He shrugged his shoulders with an impatient, 
scornful movement. 

“ Do you think that you can make me feel 
better by telling me what is untrue, like my old 
nurse, who was always telling me unlikely 
stories ? If you could trust what she said, there 
was nothing beyond my strength, and for a long 


Expiation . 


63 


time I believed her. I saw myself on horseback 
going to the wars, or riding forth to discover 
strange countries. And while she was telling 
me all those things, she knew that I would never 
get well. Servants lie to flatter one, and I will 
not have them about me any longer.” 

“ I shall not flatter you, but you must remem- 
ber that if man cannot cure your malady, God is 
all-powerful.” 

“ God ? ” Words cannot express the look of 
rebellion and satanic hatred that contracted his 
childish features. “ God is cruel and unjust. What 
have I done that he should treat me thus ? ” 

His blasphemy ended in tears. I confess that 
I was frightened. I gave confused utterance to 
some common-places about this life being a pe- 
riod of probation for the life to come, which is 
our true life. 

“ I shall never go to heaven. You do not 
know me ; you would never imagine how bad I 
am. I beat my attendants when I have 
a chance, I torture my dog ; only a few days 
ago I pulled his ears with red-hot pincers.” — Of 
course, I gave expression to my indignation. — “ I 
did it because the doctor had burned me, so as 
to cure me of the illness which God had afflicted 


64 


Expiation , 


me with. When I inflict suffering on my servants 
and on dumb animals, I, too, seem to be a God, 
and to treat them as He treated me, and revenge 
myself for my sufferings.” 

You see that I have a strange pupil to deal 
with ; there will be many conflicts between us, 
and I will not fail from time to time to tell you of 
events as they occur. 

“ And are you in the habit of exposing your 
evil thoughts in this way, and boasting of them ? 99 
I asked him. 

“ No, Doctor Scharf allows me to speak nothing 
but German, and I don’t know four words of 
that language. I speak French more fluently, be- 
cause my father and I always use it in conversa- 
tion, but I never speak of such things to my 
father, because it would grieve him.” 

“You love him very much, then?” 

“ He loves me dearly ! It is unfortunate that 
we are never together for any length of time. 
He is always sad when he is by me.” 

“ I suppose that your mother is with you more 
than he is ? ” 

“ You do not know how much she has to oc- 
cupy her time. And then she cannot bear the 
excitement of strong emotions ; she is nervous ; 


Expiation. 


^5 


extremely nervous, she says she is.” The child 
spoke in a questioning tone, as if to ask me the 
meaning of the phrase. 

“ Suppose,” I asked, “ we commence another 
game of dominos ? ” 

“No,” he replied, checking a yawn, “I am 
tired ; I would rather take a nap.” 

“Sleep, then,” said I, as I smoothed his pil- 
lows, while he followed my movements through 
his half closed eyes, in which, or at least I 
thought so, there appeared the dawning gleam of 
a newly awakened sympathy. There was a ming- 
ling of cunning and hardness yet to be detected 
in his glance, however, but soon under the calm- 
ing influence of slumber, every expression de- 
parted from his wan features except that of suf- 
fering. I felt myself drawn toward him by an 
unspeakable feeling of pity, which was almost 
tenderness. He certainly is entirely unlike other 
children, but, hidden in the depths of every soul, 
and still more so when that soul is young, there 
is a chord that can be made to vibrate. Let us 
try to find it. 

I went out upon the balcony and endeavored 
to quiet my perturbed feelings by a survey of the 
landscape. Soon there came, rolling into the 


66 


Expiation . 


courtyard an open carriage, from which three 
persons alighted a veiled lady, most graceful 
in carriage and elegant in dress, another lady, 
much older than the first, and a young man, who, 
with his load of parasols and fans, struck me as 
being the beau-ideal of the Cicisbeo. The new- 
comers disappeared within the villa ; soon I 
heard the opening of a door behind me, and then 
the sound of a female voice, addressing some one 
with all kinds of caressing phrases in a language 
which I took to be Russian. These ill-timed en- 
dearments were addressed to poor Dimitri, who, 
to judge from his groans, found the process of 
awakening a disagreeable one. Then the same 
voice, this time in Italian, called over the names 
of a number of sweetmeats as they were placed 
one by one on the covering of the bed. 

“ I hope that you will like them ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ; I shall like them very well. But 
just think, mamma, I have not been bored to- 
day ; my new teacher is here.” 

“ Very well. I suppose you will soon come to 
hate him, like all the rest.” 

“ No, indeed ; he plays a good game of domi- 
nos, and he showed me an herbarium. Do you 
know what an herbarium is, mamma ? ” 


Expiation . 


67 


“ A collection of dead plants, I suppose.” 

“ And each one with its name attached to it. 
I never saw anything so pretty.” 

“ What a strange taste! You know you will 
not have live roses in your room.” 

“ You forget that I cannot bear their odor,” 
sadly replied the child. It appeared to me that 
the lady was deficient in maternal instinct. 

“ What kind of a man is this famous teacher 
of yours ? ” 

“Oh ! he is very nice,” replied Dimitri with 
emphasis ; “ he is a great deal better than Doc- 
tor Scharf.” 

Unfortunately the sound of the dinner bell at 
this juncture interrupted my pupil’s flattering 
criticism ; there was the rustle of a silk dress, 
and then the noise of a closing door told me that 
the child was alone again. As I came out from 
my place of concealment, where I had remained 
through a feeling of foolish diffidence, I heard 
him sigh : 

“ Now I shall not be able to sleep any more.” 

Five minutes afterward, in reply to the sum- 
mons of the great bell, I presented myself in 
the drawing room, a spacious apartment with 
lofty marble columns and adorned with frescos, 


6 $ 


Expiation. 


where the Count presented me to his guests, the 
Marchioness Fossombrone and her son. They 
are the owners of one of the most magnificent 
palaces in Genoa. As Madame Volonzoff had 
called on them in the morning and had brought 
them back with her to dine, this fact seemed to 
me to be evidence that there was a certain degree 
of intimacy between the two families, but Italian 
manners are so free from ceremony that after all 
the acquaintance may have been only a casual 
one. The Marchioness, majestic in her embon- 
point and with very regular, though somewhat 
retreating features, resembles nothing so much 
as an old Melpomene ; she toys continually with 
her fan, and beneath the costly lace of her head- 
dress, keeps rolling a pair of very fine eyes, whose 
glances gained for her in her youth that reputa- 
tion for gallantry, which she still wears proudly, 
like a crown. On this side of the Alps, an ad- 
venture or so does not hurt a great lady if she 
be only good-natured and unaffected. 

The Marquis, as is so often the case with his 
countrymen, is something between an Antinoiis 
and a hairdresser ; his shoulders are too broad, 
his voice is too resounding, his beard is too 
black and handsome ; he throws too much ardor 


Expiation . 


*9 


into his glance and too much eagerness into his 
smile ; above all, he displays too many diamonds 
on his shirt-front, and the flower on the lappel of 
his coat is too full blown. He may be set down 
as being the type,/ar excellence , of the tenor and 
the cicisbeo. 

In the unconstrained manner that is said to 
characterize Italian gentlemen of birth, he at 
once began by asking me a thousand trifling 
questions about my country, at the same time 
giving utterance to a thousand inflated eulogi- 
ums of his own. He was cut short by the ap- 
pearance of Madame Volonzoff ; he at once 
changed the subject, and in his admiration of 
the toilette which that lady displayed for our 
gratification, he soon reached the end of his 
stock of superlatives. I shall not attempt to de- 
scribe this toilette ; it would be impossible. Its 
slightest details harmonized so completely with 
the beauty which it served to adorn, that it would 
have been impossible to think of the countess 
dressed in any other way. You must not ask 
me, either, to detail the particulars of her beauty, 
which has nothing in common with the ancient 
marbles that Marchioness Fossombrone recalls 
to recollection. Hers is one of those animated 


70 


Expiation. 


faces, whose expression is constantly changing 
and affording you a glimpse of a different being 
from the woman you were but now looking at. 
Her hair, arranged with a negligence that gives 
token of the highest art, is neither black nor 
golden, but rather of that color which the poet 
sings of, that of the cedar that has been stripped 
of its bark. She can be blonde or brunette, as 
the fancy may impel ; on the evening I speak of 
she was blonde. To judge from the age of her 
son, she could not be less than twenty-six years 
old, but her fresh complexion and her slender 
waist give her the appearance of a young girl. 
When I tell you that she is of Polish origin, it is 
unnecessary to speak of The nobility and grace 
that characterize her bearing ; her mother was a 
native of the country where every woman is a 
queen. 

Although Madame Volonzoff is in every re- 
spect such a charming person, still, for little Di- 
mitri’s sake, I would have preferred that she had 
been a different kind of woman, and the preju- 
dice that I felt against her before I had even 
seen her, grows stronger, notwithstanding the 
favor by which she distinguishes me. Her 
sole object seems to be to please, and her every 


Expiation . 


7i 


effort is devoted to that end. So far I have not 
been able to form an opinion as to her under- 
standing. The dinner was preceded by a course 
of cold side-dishes and fiery beverages, taken 
standing ; during the course of the meal itself, 
which was elegantly served in Russian style, 
the conversation ran entirely on entertainments 
and music, adapting itself, doubtless, to the taste 
of the Marchioness and her good-looking son, 
who are incapable of taking an interest in any 
more serious topic. I learned that Genoa still 
rivals Venice in the splendor of her carnival 
display, although attended with less disorder ; 
the old tomb-like palaces shake off their dust 
for the occasion, like the nuns in the opera of 
* Robert le Diable, sedan chairs plough their way 
through the crowds on the narrow streets and 
leave mysterious dominos at marble staircases ; 
the usual motley crowd, officers in resplendent 
uniforms, guelphs, ghibellines, abbes, pirates, 
courtiers of the sixteenth century, goddesses, 
princesses costumed after Veronese’s pictures. 
Last year the Marchioness appeared as a Doge's 
wife, in a costume that was absolutely historically 
correct, and attracted a great deal of notice ; 
she proposes to give a masked ball this season 


7 * 


Expiation* 


that will be celebrated by all the newspapers of 
Italy. At this announcement Madame Volonzoff 
clapped her hands : “I will go as a Roussalka,” 
she cried. Marquis Andrea has never read 
Pouchkine, and was forced to ask what is a 
Roussalka. When it was explained to him, the 
idea of seeing the Countess transformed into a 
water nymph seemed to strike him as a very 
agreeable one. 

“ Will you be able to get the exact costume 
for the part ? ” asked Madame Fossombrone with 
her characteristic artlessness. 

The Count spoke up negligently: “We are 
all aware that these northern sirens use their 
long locks, which constitute their only raiment, 
to strangle their lovers with, but I fancy that 
my wife will see fit to add a few reeds, at least, 
to this primitive toilette/' 

“Oh ! ” replied the Countess, laughing, “ there 
will be a little green gauze besides, and then a 
great many diamonds to represent drops of 
water, you know, and it will all come from 
Paris.” 

When we rose from table I tried to make my 
escape, but the Countess graciously insisted that 
I should come with them to listen to some music. 




Expiation. 73 


We accordingly returned to the drawing-room, 
where M. Volonzoff ensconced himself in a corner 
with Doctor Scharf, and commenced an argu- 
ment on Kant’s Philosophy. The German was 
blind to the fact that his adversary was only 
diverting himself at his expense, and supported 
his obscure theories with a great display of 
erudition and with all possible seriousness, bring- 
ing up ponderous arguments to refute a cloud 
of paradoxes ; it were like a squadron of heavy 
cavalry charging a swarm of bees. I was 
amused, and smiled involuntarily; this the Doctor 
misinterpreted, and screwed up his face in pity 
at the lack of intelligence which prevented me 
from following the discussion, while an intelli- 
gent glance from the Russian showed that he 
was aware that I entered into the spirit of the 
joke. 

While this was going on, Countess Annette, as 
she is called among her friends, was sipping her 
coffee, nestled among the cushions of a great 
divan that fills the embrazure of a window. 
Madame de Fossombrone was fanning herself 
vigorously, and her son was plying his vocation 
of lady’s man, a vocation that seemed to contain 
less refinement than my novel reading had led 


74 


Expiation . 


me to expect. He had seated himself behind 
the lady of his thoughts, and from where I sat. 
I could see his eyes gleaming beneath his Olym- 
pian brows and his dark complexion glowing 
like a charcoal fire beneath the blacksmith’s 
bellows, while his whispered impertinences were 
received without any display of anger. The 
husband did not appear to give the matter the 
slightest attention. Is this the, result of polite 
custom ? It is scarcely possible that it can re- 
sult from indifference. Is it not rather to be 
attributed to his cosmopolitan experience, which 
understands the disposition of the different 
races better than the people understand them- 
selves, and places its true value on that impres- 
sionable southern nature that is apt to blaze up 
and go out with the rapidity of a fire of dry 
straw ? The expression of the Italian counte- 
nance affords to the bystander no possible clue to 
the subject of conversation. While uttering the 
merest common-places about the weather, one 
would think that these sons of the south were 
either devoting themselves, heart and soul, to 
the lady, or else threathening to stab her. 

“You promised us some music,” suddenly 
said the Count. 


Escalation. 


n 


His wife obediently arose, and going to the 
piano, which stood in a recess in the wall — 
these immense apartments always seem bare 
and half furnished— opened it and played the 
initial bars of the duo “ Mira la bianca luna." 

I had a pretty good idea who the tenor was to 
be, and he took his place at the instrument 
without hesitation. Through the unshuttered 
windows the white autumnal moonlight came in 
and silvered the columns and statues, giving 
a poetical light to this portion of the room, the 
lamps having been removed to the piano. To 
give M. de Fossombrone his due, the coxcomb 
is a great artist, but what sfiall I say of Madame 
V olonzoff s voice, with its flexibility and great 
register ! 

She paid no attention to the compliments of 
the Marchioness, who could not find x words 
adequate to express her ecstasy, but turning to 
the doctor, she said : 

“ Now, scorner, come here and play me an 
accompaniment. Perhaps you think I did not 
notice the provoking air of inattention that you 
put on just now while I was singing ; you seem 
to think that your Beethoven is the. only com- 
poser in the world. I have known many Italians 


76 


Expiation . 


to be sincerely enthusiastic over German music, 
but I never knew a German who could listen to 
Italian music without showing his contempt for 
it.” 

The doctor parried her thrusts as well as he 
could, “ Oh, Countess,” he said, no doubt going 
back to some old dispute, “ it is ever so long 
since you put my patriotic prejudices to rout, 
but I beg that you will spare me, and not compel 
me to admire your Verdi’s newfangled empti- 
ness.” 

“You will like Verdi if I desire it,” said she, 
tapping his shoulder with her fan with a charm- 
ing air of command. In the look which he gave 
her in reply, I thought I could discern a little 
spite, tempered by other emotions. 

“ Now we will try and convert the Marquis to 
the worship of the German divinities. Listen, 
Marquis, and let us have your criticism ; I am 
going to give you a Polish movement.” 

You are aware that Gonoud in his opera of 
Faust , has successfully adapted in certain por- 
tions, characteristic Polish themes, and it was 
one of these airs that we now listened to, exe- 
cuted in a masterly manner. When it was con- 
cluded the Countess, addressing me, said : 


Expiation . 


77 


“ This is for you, Mr. Frenchman/’ And she 
sang a Bohemian song. This is the only music 
that affords the Count any pleasure ; he drew 
near and said to her : 

“ That is perfection.” 

Addressing me, she enquired : “ How did you 
like it, sir ?” In her avidity for praise, it seems 
that no voice is of so small account as to be 
beneath her notice ; she insists on gathering 
them all in. 

“It seemed,” I replied, “ as if I was listening 
to the Roussalka that we were talking about a 
while ago.” 

In fact, the song, while untrammeled by the 
laws of harmony as understood in civilized 
countries, carries one away by some indescrib- 
able, intoxicating, mysterious charm of its own. 
She smiled, and more than ever made me think 
of the Roussalka. The Marquis and the Doctor 
were dumb. Leaving them under the spell of 
fascination, I returned to my room and tried to 
read, but was interrupted from time to time by 
the groans that came from my pupil’s chamber 
and by the whisperings of the old nurse, eiv 
deavoring to quiet him and dispel the insomnia 
that continually waits on him. In fitful gusts, 


? 8 


Expiation. 


through the doors that had been left open below 
there came to me the strains of the piano, the 
notes sharp and brilliant as a display of fire- 
works. 

It is sad to notice the contrast between the 
pitiable condition of the boy and the unreflect- 
ing gayety of the mother ; it has inspired me 
with an invincible dislike for her. After an 
evening so filled with new impressions, I feel the 
need of strengthening myself by communing in 
the spirit at least with my guardian angels in 
France. The cosmopolitanism, if I may say so^ 
of this household, and the absence of home feel- 
ing, have produced an unpleasant disturbance in 
my thoughts ; as I write, a delicious peace comes 
back to me. I seem to be restored to my native 
land, with its familiar customs in all their pureness, 
truth and simplicity, and my heart flies to you as 
to a port of refuge. 

I shall keep this letter open until to-morrow. 

28th October. 

This morning I devoted to an exploration of 
the terraces, which wind upward, growing nar- 
rower as they ascend, something like a conical 
sea-shell in form, and are covered with flower 
gardens of great beauty and variety of design. 


Expiation* 


19 


The first stair-case that I took brought me into a 
plantation of camphor-trees and other exotic 
laurels, and there I found Doctor Scharf, taking 
his morning walk, with a volume of Humboldt in 
his hand. Although apparently engrossed in his 
book, he recognized me and saluted me in 
French. I replied to him in German. 

“ Ah ! you speak my native tongue, sir ? ” 

“ I am slightly acquainted with all languages.” 
“ Really ? So you have philologists at Paris ? 
The talent will be of use to you here, for as you 
will already have observed, our villa is a tower of 
Babel in miniature. Still, however, French pre- 
dominates, as it does in all Russian families of 
distinction. Strange, that this people, which as- 
similates so much, has nothing that it can call its 
own, not even a language/’ 

“Still they have a literature.” 

The Doctor shrugged his shoulders and 
glanced at his volume of Humboldt, as if calling 
on it to bear witness to the absurdity of such 
a proposition ; then he continued : 

“You also are an early riser, I see, and I con- 
gratulate you on it. How sweet, and at the 
same time, how melancholy is the perfume ex- 
haled by these flowers, the last of the year ! Of 


So 


Expiation. 


all the hours of the day this is my favorite, but 
until you came, I had no one to share my liking 
with me. Nature has no attraction for any one 
here. The freshness of the morning is wasted, 
for the curtains are kept closely drawn until 
noon,” and M. Scharf, as he spoke, pointed to 
the front of the villa. “ It is very true that they 
sit up until two o’clock in the morning, amusing 
themselves with cards, cigarettes, and what they 
are pleased to call music.” 

“ But is not the Countess a very good musi- 
cian ? ” I ventured to ask. 

“You had an opportunity of judging last 
night.” 

“ But I make no pretensions to being a judge, 
and I know that I am not hard to please.” 

“ Well, she certainly has a good voice, and 
some natural taste, but she is lacking in culture ; 
she thinks that everything comes to her by in- 
tuition, so she sings as she does everything else, 
right or wrong, hit or miss, without discernment, 
study or conviction.” 

With a cunning which does not form part of 
my character, but which circumstances made im- 
perative, I was resolved that he should talk 
freely, for when we are in strange waters we 


Expiation. 


81 


must know the shoals if we would avoid ship- 
wreck. 

“ For a person of such kind disposition,” I 
said to him, “ you seem to be severe.” 

“ Kindness, sir, is a quality of no great im- 
portance. We are talking of art, and, perhaps, I 
carry my worship of it to too great length. As 
I feel, it is impiety toward Bach, Beethoven, 
Haydn, those divinities of my native land, truly 
God-like in art, to treat their immortal works as 
we would treat what one of my countrymen calls 
Rossini’s melodious butterflies. Ah ! If you 
could only hear my little sisters ! There is con- 
science, feeling and purity for you ! They are 
in Germany, thank God, while I, for my sins, am 
compelled to be in Italy.” 

The Doctor’s childhood was passed in Prus- 
sian Silesia, and he conducted his studies in 
Berlin, but that unreasoning feeling that makes 
us consider the nook where we were born, no 
matter how forbidding it may be, the most beau- 
tiful spot of earth, is at once so touching and so 
deserving of our respect, that I was silent upon 
the question of his regrets. 

“ It is a long time since you left your country ? ” 
I asked. 


Expiation. 


$2 


“I have been an inmate of this household 
since I left it. I was not rich enough to devote 
myself exclusively to science, as it was my wish to 
do, and as it is my intention to do when my time of 
exile shall be over, and, on the other hand, there 
were many difficulties in the way of my stepping 
immediately into practice as a physician. While 
matters stood thus, Count Volonzoff begged 
me to remain with his son, to whom I was 
able to afford relief in one of his acute attacks 
at the time when the family were passing through 
Berlin. He tempted me with a large salary, but 
the motive that chiefly swayed me was humanity, 
together with the desire to study a case of which, 
fortunately, there are but few examples.” 

“ What is the nature of this horrible disease ? ” 

“You have seen the poor child. Nature, al- 
ways compassionate, has mercifully decreed that 
he shall not live ; he will not survive his fifteenth 
year, even if he reaches that age. Still, I have 
never dared to entirely deprive his parents of 
hope. Who could have the heart to do so ? An 
only son ! ” 

“ But what could have been the cause of such 
a calamity ? ” 

“ The Count maintains that his wife is respon- 


Expiation. 


*3 


sible for it. During the time of her pregnancy, 
she persisted in adhering to the wild manner of 
living that she is so addicted to, regardless of 
advice, heedless of what might happen. She was 
nearly killed by a fall from her horse ; contrary 
to all expectation, she recovered, but the child 
paid the penalty of her imprudence. That, at 
least, is the story that they tell. I hardly know, 
for my own part, what to believe. Even had 
there been no accident, Count Volonzoff’s child 
would likely have been stunted and sickly. 
These aristocratic families, that are eaten up by 
ulcers, physical as well as moral, still flatter them- 
selves with the belief that they can produce 
strong and healthy children ! 

“It is said that when the Count married, it 
was when he was no longer in his early youth, a 
youth that had been spent in all kinds of ex- 
cesses. Be that as it may, his pride must suffer 
cruelly from such an affliction.” 

“ And his feelings still more, I should imagine.’' 

“ Oh ! As for feelings, I doubt very much 
if he has any, though, no doubt, he has a heart 
to perform its proper muscular action. When 
you shall have heard him, as I have, treat with 
the utmost contempt duty, virtue, everything 


84 


Expiation « 


that is good and true, justifying in cold blood 
the very worst and basest social and political in- 
stitutions, pleasantly excusing vice on the ground 
that the standard of morality differs at different 
times and among different races and in different 
climates, and saying that he, for his part, is a citi- 
zen of the world, you will admit, I think, that he 
is endowed with a magnificent intellect, but that 
as regards natural feeling, he is entirely deficient in 
it. And to think what a source of torture to him 
his vanity must be ! That the heir to a name that 
is inscribed in the velvet book should be reduced 
to such a state ! The Count is inconsolable. 
After allowing himself for years to be deceived 
by false hopes, after having consulted the high- 
priests of science, and then having had recourse 
to all the quacks of Europe, he has at last been 
compelled to admit that fate dared to oppose him 
and was even stronger than he. Then came the 
sudden, unrelenting abandonment of every thing 
that he had been striving for in life ; he gave up 
a brilliant career, because its splendor would at- 
tract public attention to him and to his affairs. 
He could not endure the disgrace of being com- 
miserated after having been admired and envied. 
He renounced his country. You will tell me that 


Expiation . 


85 


this was not a sacrifice, for the Russians are to 
be found in every quarter of the world, except 
their own country ; but he does not travel for 
his own pleasure ; his object is to withdraw his 
son, poor sufferer that he is, from the gaze of 
the public. 

“ He is taken to the mountains for the summer, 
to warmer climates for the winter. This year 
the beauty of the location decided our coming 
here, though the Countess was very much op- 
posed to the selection. She likes to go from one 
great city to another and pose as queen over the 
festivities that are held there. That you can 
understand.” 

“ That I can understand ? ” I repeated, almost 
beside myself with indignation. “ Do you mean 
to say that it is possible that this mother ” 

“ My dear sir, ” the Doctor interrupted, in the 
peremptory and dogmatic manner which is char- 
acteristic of him, “I came from a country where 
to be a mother of a family means to be a model 
for her sex. In our country the mother of a child 
afflicted like Dimitri Volonzoff would be con- 
stantly at his bedside, watching over him and 
praying for him ; but we are here discussing 
Countess Annette. She is of the world, worldly; 


86 


Expiation. 


she is fond of what people generally are fond of. 
She would have adorned one of those pretty ba- 
bies that you can trick out with ribbons and lace 
until they look like a big handsome doll ; if she 
had had a son who was very strong, gay and in- 
telligent, perhaps she might have been proud 
enough of him to pardon him for making her 
seem a little older ; but the sight of suffering en- 
tirely upsets her delicate nerves, and the sight 
of anything disagreeable frightens her. After 
her fashion, she makes a display of her courage 
and devotion two or three times a day by paying 
a visit to this deformed creature, in whom she 
can see nothing to remind her of herself/ It hu- 
miliates her to think that he is flesh of her flesh, 
and then, although conscience is among the least 
developed of her faculties, the sight of him 
causes her a certain feeling of remorse which she 
endeavors to stifle, for it is natural for us to bear 
ill-will toward those whom we have injured ; 
moreover the birth of the child marked the be- 
ginning, not of a misunderstanding between her 
and her husband : the good-breeding that regu- 
lates their intercourse acts as a bar against those 
quarrels and recriminations which divide the 
homes of common people : but of a coldness, 


Mvpiation. 


*7 


which women like her, accustomed to be idolized, 
do not take kindly to.*' 

“ From what you tell me, I should think that 
she must incur the hatred of every one.” 

The Doctor shook his head, “ No one can hate 
the Countess.” And he took a few steps, his 
eyes cast down as if he were counting the grains 
of sand in the path. “ She is a coquette,” he 
resumed, “ and coquettes can be neither wives 
nor mothers. You have had experience of them 
in France ! ” 

“ I know no women in my country except 
those who are worthy of the highest respect,” 
I replied, nettled by this slur of his. 

“ Very good ! That is what I call real gal- 
lantry. But you are so young, likely you have 
never gone away from the family circle, outside 
of which there is nothing but deception.” 

I remembered my resolution to be uncommu- 
nicative on this subject, and shut off his ques- 
tions by answering stiffly : 

“ I have no family.” 

His expression softened, without affecting me 
materially. 

“ If that is the case,” said he, “l am happier 
than you.” And he proceeded to give me a de- 


88 


Expiation. 


tailed and lengthy account of his family, begin- 
ning with his venerable parents and ending with 
such a formidable array of brothers and sisters 
that, however great his stock of affection may be, 
he must at times be troubled to find sufficient to 
go around. “ How I pity you,” he added, “that 
you have no one whom you can love ! ” 

“What is to prevent me,” I replied, “from 
forming an attachment for this pupil whom Provi- 
idence has thrown in my way, as there seems to 
be no better object ? ” 

“ Good heavens ! ” cried Scharf , abruptly for- 
saking the sentimental tone, “ you know nothing 
of this little crippled tiger. Give up such an 
idea ; you would never succeed in taming him. 
For three years I have been caring for him the 

best I know how, and he can’t bear the sight of 

„ - 1 1 
me. 

But every one conquers with the weapons that 
are given him, and I don’t believe that M. Scharf 
has selected the best method in looking upon 
this poor child simply as something to be ob- 
served and operated on in the interest of science. 
It would not be so bad if he thought there was 
any prospect of effecting a cure. 

At this moment a little boy in a silk blouse 


Expiation. 


89 


and kid boots came up to us with a request for 
the doctor to go to his patient, who had just 
awakened. 

“Come here, F£dor,” said the German, “and 
show us how your master treats his foster- 
brother.” 

Fedor put back the hair that hung down on 
each side of his chubby little face, and displayed 
his cheek marked with stripes from the blows of 
a riding-whip. 

“ What do you say to that ? What do you 
think of our interesting little martyr's method of 
expressing his gratitude to those who serve him?” 

“ Why did you let him beat you ? ” I asked, 
indignantly. 

“ Ah ! You are going still further, and intend 
preaching the rights of man to this breed of serfs 
who have been brought up_ to love the lash ? 
The labors of Hercules would have an attraction 
for you. I wish you luck ! ” 

We separated thereupon. The conversation 
that we had had together did not seem to have 
engendered any very strong marked sympathy. 

It seems to me that this very learned young 
man expatiates with considerable complacency, 
taking into consideration how short a time we 


9 © 


have been acquainted, upon the inmost details 
of his virtuous home, that he professes to sys- 
tematically decry and deride everything which 
does not come from Berlin, and that the severity 
with which lie denounces the Countess betrays 
the fact that he is in love with her. As far as 
the Count is concerned, I would wager that the 
worst that he can be reproached with is his dis- 
position to quiz, of which I had a sample last 
night. Perhaps the Doctor, after a night’s re- 
flection, has been able to see that the attack on 
Kant was only a feint, designed to show the 
superiority of champagne and wit over beer and 
pure reason. And even if the poor little tiger 
did raise his claws and give him a scratch or 
two, should he not have tried to gain his affec- 
tion, knowing as he does better than any one 
else does what he has to suffer ? I look upon 
him as a disagreeable pedant, and a feeling of 
rivalry comes over me, with a desire to beat him 
in the difficult game we are playing. 

My letter has assumed the proportions of a 
volume. It is my intention to send you regular- 
ly the daily account of my impressions and my 
discoveries, taking special pains, be it under- 
stood, to mail my letters with my own hand, for 


Expiation, 


9 1 


among such a crowd of servants there is always 
the risk of something happening that ought not 
to, and perhaps my portraits might not prove 
pleasing to the sitters, should they chance to 
fall into their hands. 

Rose Aymes was at Madame Desaubiers* 
when this letter arrived. It was read by the 
two ladies in common. 

“ How far away from us he is,” murmured the 
young girl when the reading was finished. In 
speaking thus, she was not thinking of mere 
physical distance. A little later she retired to 
her room and abandoned herself unconstrainedly 
to the feeling of sadness which oppressed her. 
The reason of her sadness she could not explain 
even to herself. Were the news bad ? No, cer* 
tainly they were not. 

Madame Desaubiers read and re-read many 
times with a heavy heart these long pages that 
had come to them from Italy. They awoke in 
her remembrances that the struggles of twenty 
years, as she had to confess to herself, had been 
powerless to conquer. Many a vague fear, too, 
and many a scruple, such as would have hardly 
been expected to exist in so well disciplined and 


9 * 


Expiation. 


such a firmly Christian mind, added their dis- 
turbing influences and drove sleep from her pil- 
low that night. 

She was very reticent in her reply to Bernard, 
and her letter abounded in mysterious hints. 
“ You are very young,” she said, “ and have very 
little acquaintance with the world, to live in a 
household where there are so many conflicting 
interests to be conciliated. Maintain the strict- 
est silence concerning your past toward all 
curious enquirers, even should their enquiries 
seem to be dictated by good-natured motives ; 
shroud yourself in the reserve that you displayed 
toward that German, though you will probably 
find it more difficult to maintain that attitude 
should the investigations come from feminine 
sources. 

“ The name of one of the persons that you 
speak of once came into my life in connection 
with circumstances that caused me great suffer- 
ing. I look with great dread upon the prospect 
of my being recalled to the recollection of this 
person. Be prudent, then, for your old friend's 
sake, as well as for your own, and to be on the 
safe side, send all your letters to the address of 
Mariette— -Madame Hubert." 


Expiation* 


93 


V. 



| N a few weeks Bernard had sue* 
ceeded in gaining the affections of 
his pupil. “ This spoiled child shall 
know what it is to be happy,” he had said, and 
although the pledge seemed a rash one to make, 
he had been able to make it good. He was the 
constant companion of Dimitri, who, under cer- 
tain aspects, seemed to be his senior, thanks to 
the satiety produced by an unlimited^ command 
of money and what it will buy, and his own in- 
vincible selfish and domineering habits. Thus 
was justified Dr. Scharf’s saying : “ Russians are 
only elderly children, and their children are little 
old men.” 

Little by little the tastes of this small hot- 
house abortion were modified and directed to- 
ward natural objects, ingeniously disguised under 
the garb of amusements suited to his age. How- 



94 


Expiation. 


ever desirous he might be for acquiring informa- 
tion, he was incapable of sustained application. 
A regular course of study, with its formal pre- 
paration, would have frightened him, but his 
freakish intelligence was not proof against the 
wonders of Creation as exhibited in the shape of 
stones and flowers. These were the allies that 
Bernard produced to assist him in his work. An 
insect, a grain of sand, a bit of moss, served for 
a text for long talks that were entertaining while 
they were instructive. 

More than once, in those days, the Countess 
was attracted by the unaccustomed sound of 
laughter on the terrace, where her son had been 
carried for the benefit of the sunlight. She took 
her seat there, so that she might learn, if she 
could, what this prescription was that seemed to 
cure ennui. “ Oh ! if only I could avail myself 
of it ! ” she sighed. 

In reckoning Bernard up, the sum and sub- 
stance of her judgement was that he was far too 
good-looking to be a botanist and sick child’s 
nurse, and the expression of this opinion cost 
the young Frenchman many a black look from 
M. de Fossombrone, while Dr. Scharf redoubled 
his hypocritical attentions. The latter was im- 


Expiation, 


95 


placable toward Bernard’s success ; he could not 
even pardon the change in Dimitri, who, he said 
in his emphatic manner, seemed to have acquired 
a new soul. There were no more of those dis- 
mal wailings and fierce bursts of rage which had 
formerly terrified all the household. Scharf had 
preached and philosophized in vain to reach this 
end ; he had vainly appealed to the nobler feel- 
ings, which were entirely wanting in the child, to 
his reason, to his piety ; the idea never occured 
to him of utilizing his bad passions, as Bernard 
did, above all, bringing into play Dimitri’s most 
glaring defect, an unconquerable pride, and by 
its means inculcating resignation under the guise 
of stoicism. 

“ You can be a man if you will ; it depends 
entirely upon yourself,” he kept repeating to 
him on every occasion. And this quality of 
manhood, which the blundering kindness of his 
attendants had led him to believe consisted in 
nothing but physical strength and activity, had 
now, since he knew that he could gain it in its 
best acceptation in spite of circumstances, 
became the object of the little invalid’s highest 
ambition. Dimitri loved to command ; Bernard 
allowed him to do so, provided he first learned 


9 6 


Expiation , 


to command himself, and Fedor got no more 
beatings. Alms-giving was associated in his 
mind with the egotistical pleasure of doing as 
he saw grown people do, and as his new-born 
liberality brought around all the ragged little 
blackguards of Sestri, who had formerly fled 
before him in terror, the consoling illusion 
took possession of him, that since they no longer 
ran away from him, he could not be so repul- 
sive as he had been. In fact, his ugliness did 
decrease from day to day, in proportion as the 
expression of hate disappeared from his features, 
just as his physical health improved as his 
sensitive nerves became calmer through his 
exercising the only heroism that lay in his power, 
that which consists in knowing how to endure 
suffering. 

By thus withdrawing his attention from his 
own personality and encouraging an interest in 
things foreign to himself, Bernard had accom- 
plished a great work ; he infused into it all the 
enthusiasm, the passionate devotion, the ardent 
desire of doing good that in years gone by had 
impelled him toward the priesthood. His 
influence over this creature, whom it might 
almost be said he had created, was boundless, 


Expiation. 


97 


* almost magnetic in its nature ; neither did it 
destroy the familiarity which had sprung up 
between them at first sight through the inter- 
change of new impressions. 

“ You must call me Dima, as my parents do," 
the boy said to him one day ; “ strangers never 
call me by that name." 

“Very well," the master answered; “I will 
do so, provided you call me Bernard." 

It was the love and confidence, rather than 
the respect of this poor little dwarfed intellect, 
that had to be gained, an intellect that had 
hitherto remained a sealed book for every one. 
The progress in this direction for a long time 
constituted the staple topic of the letters to 
Madame Desaubiers. 

“ Our intimacy has become closer still," wrote 
Bernard, “since I have charged myself with 
many cares that until now the servants, upon 
whom the little tyrant vents his spite, have 
acquitted themselves perfunctorily. Dima 
had always felt very keenly the repugnance 
that his infirmities caused the people who took 
money for serving him, although they did their 
best to conceal this feeling. He spoke of it to me: 

“‘ While what you do for me/ he said, ‘is 


9 8 


Expiation . 


done from choice, from the goodness of your 
heart, so that I am willing to be your debtor 
for it, but I hated the others for being strong, 
and for the services they rendered me.' 

“ He insists that I shall promise never to leave 
him. His great argument is this: 4 Perhaps I 
shall not live very long/ 

“ Last night, having arisen to see if my pupil 
was asleep, he seized my hand in both his and 
gave it a rapid kiss. It was the first caress that I 
had received from him ; he is very chary of be- 
stowing them, and I wished that his mother 
might have received this one, for it would have 
been to her as a recompense for many a trouble ; 
however, she knows nothing, either of the trouble 
or the reward/’ 

Sometimes, also, Bernard in his letters, of 
which we give detached fragments, spoke of the 
increasing kindness manifested by M. Volonzoff : 

“ I want to make him understand that there 
are services that cannot be paid for with money, 
and which make even as great a man as he is a 
debtor to a poor devil like me. Speaking serious- 
ly, I would like to have him give me credit for 
the honesty of my intentions. I feel that I have 
aroused in him a kind of sympathetic curiosity. 


Expiation . 


99 


“ Dima has doubtless told him that I am doing 
some work for my own account, and that while I 
watch over him at night I occupy my time in 
writing, and the Count endeavors to discover 
what my plans are for the future and see if he 
cannot forward them. He seems to be constantly 
saying : ‘ Let me be of assistance to you.’ How- 
ever, when the conversation turns upon myself 
and my affairs, L always manage to bring it back 
to some topic of general interest, which I treat 
with the greatest freedom, thereby, perhaps, run- 
ning the risk of offending the autocrat. But no, 
to have the courage of one’s opinions seems to 
please him, though he is incapable of it himself. 
I suppose that, like most Russians of high rank, 
he has never had any great incentive to activity 
beyond his fortune and his ambition ; when dis- 
cussing general interests he is cold and unimpas- 
sioned, although he can talk admirably upon 
such subjects, as well as on all others. In the 
conversation of others, he appreciates very high- 
ly candor, moral independence, and above all 
what he calls originality , being entirely disgusted 
with that spirit of imitation which forms the 
mortal evil of his country. 

“ M. Scharf’s judgement of him was based on 


100 


Expiation. 


their reciprocal relations. The Count detests 
any webby display of science, and more than 
anything else he detests the everlasting harangues 
on German unity that the Doctor always indulges 
in as soon as the conversation turns on politics ; 
none the less has he acquired a fund of informa- 
tion by his rapid and cursory reading ; there 
is no subject on which he is entirely ignorant. 
Unfortunately, the information that he has ac- 
quired, has failed to penetrate his conscience and 
his heart, and so he is destitute of that faith with- 
out which our actions are of no avail. 

“ I notice many contrasts between his theo- 
ries and his actions, so that it seems to me that 
this sceptic might be deluded by a designing 
person. 

“ His preference for me will cause many to envy 
me, and will likely cause me some enemies. He 
said to me the other day, with one of those 
sighs that escape him whenever he speaks of what 
Dima might have been if he had been strong : 

“ i I could have wished for no other guide than 
you for the future Count Volonzoff ; my desire 
would have been that he might have been like 
you in every respect/ 

“ This was after a discussion in which I feared 


Expiation, 


IOI 


that I had exceeded the bounds of the defer- 
ence that was his due. I cannot tell you how 
flattering is the distinction between the exquisite 
politeness that he uses in his intercourse with 
every one, and the personal interest that he 
evinces for me. 

“ * My father loves you/ Dima often says to 
me, with an air of pleasure.” 

* * * * 

“You ask me how I stand with the other 
inhabitants of the villa. The Countess treats 
me with the indifference of a finished coquette, 
as she does every one else unless she desires 
to be complimented on her beauty. When she 
is getting up proverbs and charades, she comes 
to me with an appeal to my intelligence ; 
when she contemplates adding to her collec- 
tions some of those apocryphal objects that 
the Italian curiosity venders designate as Floren- 
tine metal-work r old Venetian glass, or Lucca 
della Robbia Faience, the appeal is made to my 
good taste. She dotes on bric-a-brac. Some- 
times, too, whether I will or no, she enlists 
me to take part in her game of croquet, her 
favorite out-door pastime, and this is the only 


102 


Expiation. 


opportunity we ever have of being together in 
the morning. Generally speaking, I see but 
very little of her ; she runs away on excursions 
whenever and wherever the fancy seizes her. 
Her last one was to Monaco, and was made on 
the spur of the moment. The diligence chanced 
to pass; she jumped in, laughing, and devoted 
three of her precious days to breaking the bank 
down there ; it seems, however, that an actress 
from Paris snatched away the laurels from her 
in this exploit. She came back with empty 
pockets, but with a fine collection of rather 
doubtful anecdotes, which she tells very drolly, 
to the delectation of her little court, which is 
not distinguished for elegance of manners or 
purity of taste. These provincial Italians are 
wanting in tact, and the Russians who stop 
here to pay their respects to their handsome 
country-woman appear to be no better than 
they, except that they maintain a certain affec- 
tation ; their self-conceit is none the less repul- 
sive for being slightly veiled. It should be said 
that Countess Annette keeps the track open for 
the crowd of admirers, among whom M. de Fos- 
sombrone, to use the turf slang which prevails 
here, is a good first. Such conduct in a country 


Expiation . 


™3 


less indulgent than this, would give rise to 
scandal, and another husband than the Count 
would not endure it with impunity, but there 
are men whom nothing can make ridiculous. 
M. de Volonzoff is such a man. He apparently 
considers that his honor is not endangered and 
passes over his wife's freaks without either 
approving or condemning them. I suspect that in 
her heart this attitude of his is displeasing to her. 

“ While recently discussing with me the fre- 
quenters of her drawing-room, she said, ‘Prin- 
cess K. is a happy woman.' 

“ I enquired what this enviable felicity of Ma- 
dame K.’s could consist in, a woman with 
blanched features, a wit so thick that it can 
be aroused only by the interest of the gaming 
table, and an apoplectic old husband, a regular 
wild boar in uniform. The uniform, it is true, 
was left behind at St. Petersburg, but the stiff- 
ness of his corpulent form still gives evidence 
of the tightly buckled sword belt. I remem- 
bered that the General was said to place his 
servants and his wife on an equal footing by the 
brutality with which he treated them. 

No doubt that he is repulsive and ridicu- 
lous,' she answered, ‘ but that is of small conse- 


104 


Expiation . 


quence ; perhaps he beats her, but he loves her, 
or anyway he did love her at one time. Just 
think ; she was a widow and had no settled in- 
tention of marrying. He came to her with a 
pistol in his hand and swore that he would blow 
his brains out, unless she gave a favorable an- 
swer to his suit.’ 

“ ‘ It is very much to be deplored by us, who 
have to receive his visits, that she did not let 
him carry out his intention,’ said the Count, who 
was standing near. He cannot endure to be 
compared with this hair-brained hero. The at- 
titude that he assumes toward the mad scenes 
that take place at the villa is that of a person 
who has doggedly resigned himself to see to the 
end a bad piece played by bad actors. Does it 
cause him suffering ? I can’t help thinking that 
it does, for the retirement to which'he has con- 
demned himself in the prime of life is not com- 
pensated by the repose of his own fireside, or 
rather there is nothing here that is at all like 
family life, with its community of joys and griefs; 
that this is so is the unpardonable fault of this 
worldly little actress, who is neither wife nor 
mother.” 

******** 


Expiation . 


I0 5 


“I am more than ever inclined to think that 
Scharf is in love, although he studiously conceals 
his sentiments under a breastplate of German 
impenetrability which he prides himself upon. 

“ ‘ See how the moths scorch their wings in 
the lamplight,’ ” said he, retreating to his dark 
corner, like a bird of night. 

“ It is true that the Countess never failed to 
call him forth again with some of those charm- 
ing compliments which she lavishes on every- 
body. His response shows that he mistrusts her, 
but I have caught his blue eyes sending out 
singularly ardent glances, and his mouth, the 
corners of which are drawn closely by his habit 
of self-repression, indicates as much sensuality 
as it does hardness. I suspect that he places 
great value upon his pedantic authority, and that 
his ideas of virtue coincide with those that some 
philosopher held upon knowledge, that he would 
have none of it unless he could use it to make a 
display with ; it is of assistance to him in his 
calling and he makes skilful use of it. Scharf 
at the same time despises, fears, and courts Ma- 
dame Volonzoff, but what characterizes him be- 
yond all else is his prudence ; he wants to retain 
a position that pays him well, and would not com- 


Expiation. 


io 6 


promise his prospects for a mere trifle. It is said 
that the Countess* favors do not exceed the 
bounds of a mild flirtation.’* 

******** 

“ I suppose that as Rose can only work on the 
portrait which she promised^ me at stray mo- 
ments, and as she has less and less leisure time, 
I shall have to wait a long time for it. Dear, 
good child ! I admire and respect her more and 
more when I think how usefully she fills up her 
life, and compare her course with that of others, 
who squander what little intellect they have in a 
fruitless pursuit of pleasure. Tell her, I beg you, 
how lonely I feel, so far away from her.” 


Expiation. 


107 


VI. 



I ERNARD'S letters continued in this 
strain up to the middle of January, 
when all at once they began to be 
shorter and more infrequent. This change, it is 
to be observed, coincided with the still greater 
change which at this time occurred in the habits 
of Countess Annette. 

She had suddenly pulled up in her headlong 
pursuit of pleasure, and no one could assign a 
reason for her conduct. She said that the coun- 
try was uncongenial to her, that hunting, the 
only pleasure possible in the wintry days, was 
out of the question, that it was colder than in 
Russia, and she was no longer to be seen on 
horseback or driving her pony chaise on the 
Genoa road. Taking advantage of a too ardent 
demonstration on the part of M. de Fossombrone 
she requested him, with unwonted severity, to 


io8 ' 


Expiation . 


make his visits less frequent, and almost ceased 
altogether to receive him. A long journey which 
the Count was compelled to take on urgent busi- 
ness served her as a pretext for this, although 
the presence o-r the absence of her husband had 
never until now had much to do with influencing 
her sayings and doings. She told Bernard that 
the fact was that she was horribly weary of her 
stupid surroundings ; she was eaten up with 
ennui \ and wanted to try some new method of 
curing it ; could he not lend her some books, 
and even give her a few lessons in French when 
he had nothing better to do ? She ridiculed her 
St. Petersburg jargon, and made excuses for her 
accent, as if those soft, drawling inflections had 
not contributed one of her attractions. Bernard 
shied at the mention of the lessons, but he could 
not well refuse to lend the books, although he 
took care to select the driest and heaviest so that 
she might the more quickly tire of her whim. 
Unluckily the result was not as he wished ; she 
read them, or at any rate, guessed at their con- 
tents sufficiently to be able to talk about them 
and keep him longer than was agreeable to him 
at the side of her little embroidery frame, whose 
only use was to allow a] daintily shod little foot 


Expiation . 


109 


to peep out from beneath her skirt, and the slen- 
der hand which held the needle to remain poised 
in an attitude to compel admiration. While his 
eye was thus riveted on the flashing of her rings 
and the movements of her slipper, he was aston- 
ished to find that this woman, whom he had set 
down as a nonentity and absolutely frivolous, 
doubtless because she strictly obeyed that law of 
politeness which decrees that no one shall seem 
to know more than his guests, had the capacity 
of thinking, listening and talking. She had a 
smattering of instruction, although what she had 
acquired lacked arrangement in her mind, and a 
seeming resolve to divest herself of all common 
sense, impelled her frequently to look on serious 
things under a comic aspect and to treat trifles 
with gravity. 

It would have been difficult to say how much 
of this was natural with her and how much the 
effect of that assimilation, which comes so easy 
to women, and especially to women of her 
country ; the light woof, however, of which she 
threw the threads so dexterously, was shaded 
with touches of natural feeling, with sprightliness, 
even sometimes with melancholy. What had at 
first been a bore to Bernard, imperceptibly be- 


no 


Expiation. 


came a pleasure ; then an absolute necessity. 
He felt impatient for the time to come when she 
should curl herself up in her easy chair as grace- 
fully as a kitten, and begin to give him her im- 
pressions and ask his explanations on what she 
had been reading, always giving the preference 
to the subject of love, some trace of which her 
quick analysis would not have failed to discover 
in solution in the dullness of sermons. 

To be a good talker is not a German accom- 
plishment. Scharf did not excel in this line, 
and accordingly held it in light esteem. He was 
too heavy to rise on the wings of wit, and to 
touch lightly a hundred subjects in the course of a 
half-hour’s talk was something quite beyond him. 

As he could not shine, he was accustomed to 
beat a retreat and await the Countess’ summons, 
when she stood in need of a cavalier to attend 
her in her walks. But it was soon observable 
that she began to shorten her walks with the 
Doctor, pretending either that she was tired or 
that the weather was bad, while the clearness of 
the sky and her sudden desire for exercise, 
seemed to smile on the pedestrian excursions 
which this whimsical young woman indulged in 
in company with Bernard. One day she had 


Expiation . 


in 


taken his arm to ascend with her light, sure step 
the rocky heights that overlook the sea : 

“You are an author/' said she; “now don't 
tell me you are not. For two weeks I have shown 
a firmness that I never thought was in me by 
receiving those great big books that you gave 
me. Do you know why I did it ? It was that I 
might be able to get hold of yours." 

“ I have never written a book," said Bernard, 
blushing. 

“ Oh ! it may not be printed; perhaps it is 
not finished. That makes no difference. You 
must let me see a few leaves of it, even if nothing 
more than a poor little sonnet. Unless," she said, 
suddenly becoming serious, “ you don’t consider 
me worthy of such confidence, and you are one 
of those people who, having once formed a poor 
opinion of any one, can never change it." 

“ It would be presumptuous in me," replied 
the young man, much embarrassed, “ to form an 
opinion upon you, Madame." 

“ There is no dispute that you are well-bred ; 
even if you were not, you could not have given 
me any other answer. But I can tell the differ- 
ence between politeness and sincerity. At the 
very beginning I noticed that you had taken a 


1 1 2 


Expiation . 


dislike to me, or rather, if you prefer to have it 
expressed that way, that I shocked your ideas 
of respectability.” 

“ Admitting such an impossibility to be a fact, 
you surely would never have condescended to 
notice it.” 

“ You are mistaken, sir ; I only disregard the 
hostility of bad people and the recriminations of 
the foolish. You are not to be counted as be- 
longing to either camp, and I should feel flattered 
if you would consent to take your place among 
my friends. If it is not asking too much, give 
me the proof of reconciliation — or of your 
confidence, since you say there is no reconcilia- 
tion necessary— and grant me the favor that I 
ask for.” 

Bernard bowed. During the whole of the 
walk that they had taken together, she had been 
adroitly urging him on to confidences, to which 
he had replied very guardedly; she doubtless 
hoped to learn more from his pen than she could 
from his lips ; he was provoked rather than flat- 
tered, by this idle curiosity that took him for its 
object. However, upon their return that same 
evening, he yielded to her wish without hesita- 
tion, though not without repugnance. He ex- 


Expiation, 


n$ 


perienced a secret feeling of enjoyment at the 
disappointment which the Countess would meet 
with ; the pages where she expected to find son- 
nets inspired by her beautiful eyes, or revelations 
which would satisfy her curiosity in regard to his 
past life, were filled with sketches of character, 
very frank and unreserved, no doubt, but inter- 
esting only from a psychological point of view. 
There were bits of reflection and scattered frag- 
ments, like the sketches that a painter uses in 
preparing to paint his great picture. It was the 
introduction of a solitary, thoughtful mind, at 
once elevated and severe, turned upon itself and 
seeking its sustenance in regions quite beyond the 
ken of Countess Annette. There was material 
there for more than one book, but as yet unco- 
ordinated and wanting in dramatic movement 
and the indispensible qualities of shape and sym- 
metry. To reduce the interest to the lowest 
point, Bernard cut out all the pages where love 
was mentioned in any shape ; the image of Rose 
was veiled with religious delicacy. As he placed 
his mutilated journal on Countess Annette's 
little table, among the bon-bons, flowers and 
thousand knick-knacks that she liked to see 
about her, the young man thought of de 


Expiation, 


1 14 


Mosset’s parrot, who received “ a bean 

displayed in tissue paper, like a bon-bon made.” 

At the first glance she recognized the manu- 
script among the other books and seized it as if 
it had been her prey, crying, “ You may keep the 
rest.” Then Bernard felt himself trembling a 
little, as if this feminine criticism was of the 
slightest importance in the world to him. He 
excused himself to himself for his ridiculous 
emotion by saying that she was merely the first 
of that great public with which he was to have 
relations. 

Annette, however, proffered no opinion, neither 
was she lavish with that hyperbole of admiration 
which is common among the Russians, and which 
would be too much even for an author’s vanity. 
Several days passed during which she spoke no 
word ; at last, one evening, he came upon her in 
the little nook which she had constructed with 
screens for her own private retreat at the far end 
of the great drawing- room. His manuscript was 
on her knee, and she seemed to be meditating. 
At his approach, she slowly raised her eyes, suf- 
fused with tears ; without wiping them away, she 
said, “ See what you have done ! ” 

Before Bernard, taken by surprise and greatly 


Expiation . 


ll S 


moved by this unexpected and apparently in- 
voluntary tribute, could find a word in reply, she 
continued : 

“ Take that chair. I do not intend to say 
anything about your talent ; I don’t even know 
if you have any, and my opinion would carry no 
weight with it. What impressed me, let me tell 
you to my mortification, was that I did not think 
that there existed in all the world such a noble 
character as I met with in your book. Do not 
laugh. I asked myself the question, what would 
become of this soul in this world that I know 
so well, where the best and noblest go to ruin ; 
into whose hands it would fall, for sooner or 
later it will find some one to claim it. It always 
ends that way ; we love, and then our virtues 
are forgotten, and our faults, perhaps, redeemed. 
To what purpose do we live, if not for this ?” 

Bernard hardly knew what to think. Annette 
seemed to pay no attention to him ; she sat 
watching the fire. 

“I could write a book,” she said, “if I could 
only hold a pen, and a curious one it would be. 
I thought of it as I was reading yours. What a 
contrast there would be between yours and mine! 
On the one hand goodness, intelligence, strong 


Expiation . 


116 


principles and a youth devoted to religion and 
study ; on the other, a pandemonium that you 
cannot form an idea of, created by myself and 
whose torments I am still condemned to suffer.” 

“It's a very merry pandemonium, anyhow,” 
Bernard could not refrain from interjecting. 

She glanced at him reproachfully and then 
began to laugh : 

“Yes ; it is true that the people here are fond 
of amusement, and I, too, like pleasure. Count- 
ess Annette, the little fool, only needs a few toys 
and some rags to make her happy, so that we 
shall have, to find a more interesting heroine 
for the novel or the drama that is to be evolved 
from the inspiration of your Epic here” —she 
passed without transition from enthusiasm to 
irony — “ which was not written for me, it is 
true ; but then I like everything that is new and 
out of the common. To return to our heroine; 
she was a friend of mine, and as I do not give 
her name, I shall not be indiscreet if I tell you 
her story. When, for the first time in my life, 
I have thought of one thing for a whole hour, 
it would be a sin and a shame to let my re- 
flections and my recollections fade away with- 
out imparting them to any one. Perhaps you 


Expiation. 


117 


will be able to utilize them some time if you 
continue your analysis of the human heart, 
though I warn you that they will make a less 
innocent book than that little blue covered one 
of yours/’ 

Bernard was not very anxious to hear the 
Countess’ story, but he was there, shut in by 
the silken leaves of the screen ; moreover an 
unaccountable languor prevented him from mov- 
ing away from the presence of the beautiful 
silky hair, the rosy hand, the undulating, grace- 
ful form which bent toward him and almost 
touched him at every moment. The expressive 
modulations of her voice came to him as one 
in a dream. 

“ The childhood of my friend, whom we will 
call Sacha, if you will, was passed far away from 
great cities, and as she became old enough to 
assume the burthen of responsibility, she became 
absolute mistress of a lordly residence, whose 
geographical position it is needless that I should 
precisely mention. The only remaining mem- 
ber of her family was a grandfather, under the 
formative influence of whose example she had 
grown up to be a little tyrant. Harsh and 
severe with every one besides, he was the 


i iS 


Expiation. 


obedient slave of this slender child, whom he 
feared to crush with his great hands every time 
that he gave her a caress, for he was a giant, a 
colossus. Sacha was the only one who dared to 
take the brandy bottle away from him after din- 
ner. When younger he had been a great hunter 
and a great drinker, but now that by reason of his 
corpulence he could no longer mount his horse, 
or hardly even leave his easy-chair, he indem- 
nified himself by drinking double rations. A 
priest of the Greek Church, who was one of the 
household, kept him company in these bouts 
and taught little Sacha to say her prayers before 
the holy images ; his instruction supplemented 
that of the nurses who had taken care of her 
from her infancy, fine-looking creatures gen- 
erally, recruited by the old master from among 
his peasantry. In this rustic harem were story- 
tellers who would not have cast discredit on 
those of the Arabian Nights ; from them my 
friend acquired all the popular legends and 
superstitions, forming them into a kind of 
special and occult religion, in which the horo- 
scope played an important part. 

“ Before the little one was ten years old, she 
was constantly running over the cards in her 


Expiation, 


119 


search for that emperor, beautiful as the day, 
whom the women had promised her for a hus- 
band. The Gypsies, who sometimes came and 
lighted their fires and put up their tents in the 
neighborhood, inspired Sacha with a taste for 
music. On one occasion she did not stop at 
singing the songs of the Bohemians. Weary with 
her long waiting for the prince who was to come 
and carry her off, a fierce desire for liberty seized 
her, and she determined to follow the wandering 
band out on the steppe. The vagabond was 
caught and chained up, or in other words, an 
English governess was secured to direct her edu- 
cation. You can't imagine what a sorry figure 
the poor English girl cut at the coarse table, sur- 
rounded by a crew of hangers-on, who, attracted 
from the neighboring villages by the enticing 
odor of abundant victual (may kind heaven 
preserve you from an acquaintance with our 
country hashes and meat pies !), came and set- 
tled down in swarms like flies, guzzling, drinking 
and exhaling their sooty odors, until they fell flat 
upon the ground. 

“ Sacha presided at these orgies, and now and 
then condescended to dance, like Salome before 
Herod, when the dessert was on the table. She 


I2d 


Expiation * 


demanded no one's head as the reward of her at- 
tractions, but admiration was a necessity to her ; 
she had to have it, no matter from what quarter 
it came. The pleasing incense, no matter how 
coarsely mingled with tobacco smoke, went to her 
head and intoxicated her, but she did not allow 
this effect to appear ; on the contrary, she main- 
tained the disdainful indifference of a queen. The 
English governess was so outraged by these strange 
proceedings that she handed in her resignation, a 
step which pleased everybody, for her red nose 
and her puritanic severity of contour had made 
her no friends in the house. She was succeeded 
by a Parisian ; a kind of milliner, a wide-awake 
woman of ambitious disposition, who was so little 
careful to observe the retiring manners which 
the village beauties, it is due to them to say, had 
always maintained in the old barracks, that it be- 
came necessary to discharge her. Her abbre- 
viated stay, however, was not entirely without re- 
sults. It put Sacha on the track of the French 
eighteenth century romances, with which one of 
her great uncles, a disciple of Jean Jacques Rous- 
seau and confidential officer of the Empress Cath- 
erine, had enriched the shelves of their other- 
wise scanty library. 


Expiation. 


121 


“Then there came a string of poor girls from 
the different nations of Europe, and each one 
contributed her stone to that composite structure 
that was entitled Sacha's education. She learned 
to speak several languages, but could not spell 
her own correctly. 

“ She had reached her fifteenth year, when her 
grandfather died in a fit of rage, brought on by 
the efforts of one of his sisters, while on a visit 
to him from St. Petersburg, to introduce modern 
innovations upon his estate. After the funeral 
ceremonies, this lady took charge of the orphan 
and carried her away with her. 

“ At St. Petersburg there was a change, but it 
was not for the better A clique of fashionable 
old women took the little savage in hand and at- 
tempted to tame her. All the artifices of coquetry 
were regularly instilled into her mind as so many 
principles to be observed. The Lord knows how 
little need she had of instruction of this kind ! 
The most risky questions were discussed in her 
presence with the cold cynicism that is born of 
experience. All the gossip, all the scandal, all 
the intrigues of fashionable life in the great city, 
were commented on in her hearing. She was 
initiated into that strategy of love which has for 


122 


Expiation. 


its beginning the conquest of a husband, she was 
taught the use of rouge, she was supplied a whole 
arsenal of fictitious sentiment, she was taught to 
hatch plots, to set traps, to calculate effects, to 
make herself mistress of the situation, and, above 
all, to lie without blushing. 

“ There is a picture which represents a young 
witch being washed and combed for the Sabbath 
by the older hags, a fearful crew of veterans in 
the devilish art. It always brought to my mind 
Sacha’s initiation into polite society. 

“As soon as the time of mourning had expired 
she was introduced to society by the relative 
who had assumed charge of her, an old dowager, 
whose snow-white hair had been dyed yellow, 
who preserved the manners of a frisky young 
matron, and every evening repaired her ruins so 
as to exhibit them in half a dozen drawing-rooms 
in succession. She was always attended by an 
intrepid band of courtiers, whose number was 
augmented to a legion when the dazzling Sacha 
appeared at her side. Sacha created a sensation 
at once ; mothers of marriageable daughters 
showed their envy when they spoke of her, and 
from the very day of her presentation at court, 
she became the target for feminine calumny; 


Expiation. 


123 


which is, in my opinion, the greatest triumph that 
a woman can achieve. It was told in the news- 
papers how she could manage an unbroken horse 
with the skill of the Cossack amazons, and how 
she skated with the grace and vigor of a man. 
Every head was turned by the remnant of uncul- 
tivated barbarism which Sacha had been allowed 
to preserve, in order to place the seal of individu- 
ality upon her newly acquired notoriety. The 
heaviest swells among the young men, in the 
most gorgeous of uniforms, and with the most re- 
sounding titles, threw themselves at her feet, but 
Sacha was quick to see the ridiculous side of 
everything, and was much addicted to caricature; 
attentions which would have raised other young 
girls to the seventh heaven of felicity only made 
her laugh. The suitors who were brought be- 
fore her for her approval were certainly splendid 
dancers and very nice to flirt with, but when it 
came to choosing a husband, she wanted a man, 
one who would command her and whom she 
must respect and obey, not a dude nor a dandy. 
These icjeas were original and eccentric, but they 
were Sacha's own. No one knew that she held 
them, no one would have thought of advising her 
in this direction, even when she came to make 


124 


Expiation . 


her choice, which, moreover, caused surprise to 
no one. It was quite natural that she should se- 
lect a husband much older than herself, since the 
sacrifice was fully counterbalanced by his high 
rank and eminent position at court. Every one 
thought that she had married for ambition, and 
congratulated her accordingly, while her motives 
were altogether the opposite. Even her husband 
failed to do her justice. It flattered his vanity 
to have carried off the young and beautiful rich 
heiress, the crowning ornament of the season, 
over the heads of his younger rivals ; it was a su- 
preme success, a glorious event in his career. 
He never required from his wife qualities that he 
had never expected to find in her, but he applied 
himself resolutely to satisfy every desire of her 
worldly imagination. To change her into a rea- 
sonable, reasoning woman would have seemed to 
him a miracle that he had not sufficient presump- 
tion to undertake, and still I declare to you that 
the miracle was not impossible. If he could have 
but thought so, if he had cared to make the experi- 
ment, Sacha would have been whatever he cared 
to make her. But he had not married for the sake 
of educating a little girl, and so Sacha remained 
what she had always been ; she remembered the 


Expiation , 125 


early lessons in evil that she had received, and 
practiced them. 

“ Sensation must be deadened by some means 
or other, and as real passion was wanting, she 
needed the counterfeit article by which she saw 
herself surrounded on every side. What can I 
say ? She was angry and sore at the unruffled 
composure with which her husband acceded to 
her every caprice, and hoped to arouse his 
jealousy. Of course, she was the subject of 
many a scandalous story, but still she behaved 
much more discreetly than did the majority of 
her associates, as her husband knew very well. 
I often wondered if- he thought any more of her 
for it. He doubtless thought that a coquette is 
too heartless to feel real passion, and perhaps he 
also reckoned on the pride of a woman who set 
too high a value upon herself to derogate easily. 
He would disinterestedly place before her his 
sufficiently broad code of morality, in which she 
was at liberty to look for his words of advice and 
by which she was to shape her conduct. — ‘ Too 
much importance, ' he would say, Ms attached 
to the language of gallantry ; after all, every 
word has only its own specific meaning, and all 
will go well, provided that the woman whose wits 


Expiation. 


are sharpened in the contest will only select her 
interlocutor from those who know enough to 
answer in the same spirit that she talks to them. 
The main thing is to assure yourself beforehand 
that he is too much a man of the world to take 
trifling for serious business/ 

“ Sacha found that he was right. Only once, 
in selecting her admirers, did she make the 
mistake of departing from that commonplace 
type who are incapable of any violent emotion, 
and on that account fitted for their role. It was 
at the time when she was endeavoring to form a 
salon that should be distinguished by something 
more earnest than the usual frivolity ; a cer- 
tain artist of distinction, upon whom she 
depended to impart a flavor of genius to her 
assemblies, responded to her advances in such a 
manner that she was obliged to ring for her 
servants. He thereupon took occasion to openly 
calumniate her, and in consequence became 
acquainted with the point of her husband’s 
sword, who, on this occasion, as well as on 
several others, nobly defended the honor of a 
foolish woman, who perhaps deserved to be 
spoken ill of. It was, however, as she very well 
knew, nothing but the question of honor which 


Expiation . 


127 


influenced his action. There was never a scene 
caused by outbreaking jealousy ; hardly was 
there even a taunting word.” 

“ Why,” here Bernard tried to interrupt, “did 
she not endeavor to conquer his esteem ? ” 

But this reflection did not shape itself in 
words, or if it did, they were uttered so low 
that the Countess did not hear them. 

“ At length,” she continued, “ Sacha gave up 
in despair ; she could no longer rely even on 
those pleasures in which she so long had sought 
a factitious forgetfulness ; before her youth 
should entirely depart from her, she wanted to 
know what real love was. Yet a few years and 
that talisman of beauty, without which a woman 
is as nothing, would have forever left her ; she 
felt that she had not made the best use 
that she could of this great gift. She must 
hasten to make the most of life while she had 
it in her power. But when she would have 
descended from the pedestal where she had 
stood to receive the worship of her adorers, 
Sacha was horrified to find that she experienced 
only a feeling of disgust toward those who 
professed to be her worshippers. Could it be 
possible that the race of heroes of romance was 


12 $ 


Expiation « 


extinct, or had this race never existed save in 
the imagination of novel writers and the empty 
brains of fools ?- It was a bitter regret to her 
that she could not twine a wreath of roses 
around the head of some rustic clown or other, 
as so many women have done since the time of 
Titania, and close her eyes upon the ass* ears 
and whatever other infirmity, moral or physical, 
there might be. Notwithstanding her first un- 
fortunate experience, which I have told you of, 
it occured to her that perhaps she would be 
more successful in her quest outside her own 
society, but as she could not very well go and 
hunt for this unattainable bird, it was very evi- 
dent that she must wait for the bird to come to 
her. And so Sacha was likely to wait until her 
hair should turn gray, was likely to die without 
having once tasted the only supreme joy that 
life affords/' 

“ Then your friend Sacha had no children ? " 
enquired Bernard, in a tone that approached 
rudeness. 

She turned upon him with a movement of 
impatience : “ Do you think that a child can fill 
the place of every other interest, and that all 
the activities of a woman's life are to be circum- 


Expiation. 


129 


scribed by her duties as a nurse and as a house- 
keeper ? ” 

“ Her duties as a mother call for obedience/* 
gravely replied Bernard. 

Annette sighed. 1 read in your eyes/* said 
she, “ a reproach that is leveled at another per- 
son than Sacha. Do not be too hasty in your 
judgment, or rather take pains to hear both sides 
of the case. Dima’s mother should have been a 
sister of charity. I am utterly useless at a sick-bed. 
I pity him, I weep, all that I can do is unavailing 
and foolish. If, too, his trouble were one that 

there is any hope of his recovering from ” 

“ Do you mean to say that we tire of the 
spectacle of human suffering, or that by long 
beholding it we become hardened to it ? ” 

“ You are too severe. It is true that I am 
wanting in duty toward my son, since at this 
very moment I am keeping you away from him, 
when you might be doing him some good and 
directing your affection for him into a useful 
channel. Pardon the length of my uninteresting 
tale. Leave me and go to the child.” 

“No; I would rather learn what was the fate 
of that unhappy woman.” 

“ You pity her ? Perhaps you are right. The 


i3° 


Expiation . 


last time that I saw her, she was in an extremely 
critical condition. He, whom she had been 
awaiting so long, who was to incarnate her young 
dreams, the lover predicted by the horoscope, 
had at last descended from fairy-land, I suppose, 
so much at variance with his condition were his 
face and his deserving, so wrapped in mystery 
was his origin. 

“ Although the ideas of we Russians are more 
liberal than is generally supposed, I was some- 
what surprised that Sacha's aristocratic preju- 
dices — for who is free from prejudice ? — had 
not been a safeguard to keep her from being 
captivated by a man of apparently obscure birth ; 
but Sacha, who has most every kind of know- 
ledge at her finger-ends, mythology among the 
rest, asked me if Apollo had lost his divinity at 
the time when his misfortune had made him a 
shepherd ? You need not let this pretentious 
comparison sway you to the inference that her 
shepherd is any way like Apollo, who, after all, 
was of an insipid kind of beauty, something after 
the style of Fossombrsne, I suppose.” — Here 
the Countess gave way to laughter. — “No, think 
of him rather as one of those handsome pages, 
that princesses and chatelaines used to fall in 


Expiation . 


131 


love with in old times, and who used to die at 
the feet of Parisina, or in the arms of Frances- 
ca — ” she looked at Bernard through her half- 
closed eyes with a smile that made him shiver— 
“for there is no need to tell you that the end 
of such adventures is always a poniard stroke, or 
something of that nature. Still, our story may 
have a less tragic ending; we will try and discover 
the denouement at some other time, if you wish.” 

When Bernard tried to arise, he had to shake 
off a stupor that seemed like drunkeness. 

“ But tell me first,” said the Countess, stop- 
ping him, “ do you think that Sacha can ever be 
loved as she loves ? ” 

“ Her love will be repaid to her a thousand 
fold,” he replied, hardly knowing what he said. 
“ Women like that have no heart, only a de- 
praved curiosity.” 

“ I thank you in her behalf,” replied Annette, 
laughing. 

As he retired with his blood boiling in his 
veins, this sound of laughter, expressive at once 
of emotion and triumph, rang in his ears, and 
the perfume that the Countess habitually used 
seemed to follow him, subtle and lasting as a 
love charm. 


* 3 * 


Expiation. 


VII. 

HAT can be the matter with her ? ” 
enquired Scharf, after the reunion 
of the party at dinner. Madame 
Volonzoff had scarcely opened her lips during 
the whole evening, and the absent-minded way 
in which she fitfully transfixed her embroidery 
with her needle betrayed a preoccupation, which 
rendered her insensible to what was going on 
around her. The most astounding of all the 
symptoms was that she had not changed her 
dress. Bernard remembered having expressed 
his admiration of the good taste of this dress, it 
being plainer than those which she generally 
wore. Was it by chance, or was it intentionally 
that she still had it on ? 

When, it was evident to the two young men 
that she intended to persevere in this unwonted 
silence, and that politeness commanded them to 
withdraw, the Countess did nothing to retain 




Expiation . 


*33 


them ; she waited until the Doctor had passed 
the door-sill, then, as Bernard was about to fol- 
low, she summoned him to her side. He turned 
and advanced a few steps in her direction. 

“ I have been thinking over our conversation 
of this morning,” said she. u Do you really think 
that I ought to devote more of my time to Dima?” 

“ Your own heart, Madame, should be a bet- 
ter adviser for you in this case than I can be.” 

“ But you would approve of my doing so ? ” 

“ Madame, most certainly ! ” 

“ Very well ! ” 

She looked at him submissively, with an ex- 
pression that he had never seen on her face be- 
fore, and she gave him her hand ; as he was about 
to take it in his usual respectful manner, she of 
her own accord raised it to his lips. She had 
often allowed him to kiss her hand before, but it 
had never caused him such mental disturbance 
as now. 

When, that night, after the story of Sacha’s 
education and trials had served to excuse a thou- 
sand fold Madame Volonzoff’s conduct, Bernard 
at last fell into a troubled slumber, he dreamed 
that he was tossing in the little gilded boat on 
the artificial river in the park, which had now be- 


*34 


Expiation . 


come a raging torrent. The Countess was at the 
tiller, her hair flying in disorder. As he lay at 
her feet, he called her by the familiar name of 
Sacha. The little boat turned around and around, 
whirled along by the current, while a female form 
upon the shore, dimly visible through the mist, 
seemed to be making signals of distress. As he 
looked he seemed to recognize Rose, and turned 
away his head. Annette’s hair, blown around 
him by the wind, enveloped him in a perfumed 
caress which by degrees changed to keenest tor- 
ture * he seemed to be strangling, he tried to cry 
out, but was voiceless; all around him the roar 
of the seething waters kept continuously increas- 
ing in volume. He heard the straining and 
creaking of the boat’s timbers; the dark pleas- 
ure of such a death filled his mind, at the 
same moment he heard a voice that seemed 
to shatter his reason, crying : “ You are mine ! ” 
When he at last awoke from the horrors and 
delights of this night-mare, he was handed a 
package from France, a few lines from Madame 
Desaubiers accompanying the portrait that he 
had been waiting for so long and so impatiently, 
and which, now that it had come to hand, brought 
with it an emotion that was very like remorse. 


Expiation. 


135 


Her excess of modesty had prevented the 
artist from doing herself full justice. Rose 
seemed to have grown thinner. Hard work and 
constant mental strain never make a woman more 
beautiful physically, whatever effect they may 
have on her moral nature. To a stranger it 
would have seemed an exquisite work of art, 
rather than the picture of a pretty woman, and 
for the space of a second Bernard looked at it with 
the eyes of a stranger, whereas twenty-four hours 
earlier he would have gone down on his knees be- 
fore the ivory tablet that was at once the handi- 
work and the image of Rose. It is true that tears 
soon came and washed away the involuntary crime. 
He thought of the hours that she had taken from 
her needed rest in order to devote them to him, he 
thought of the memories and fond hopes that had 
accompanied every stroke of her brush, and of 
her modest blush that had enhanced her beauty 
as she pictured to herself his joy when he should 
receive this portrait. There was her sweet, 
patient smile, her naturally curling hair, refusing 
to be confined, and escaping over her broad, 
white forehead, the well-worn black dress that 
she had worn the day he went away, unrelieved, 
save by a single blue ribbon which he had begged 


Expiation . 


136 


from her, or rather which she had offered him, 
anticipating the dearest wish of his heart. The 
poor child was not one of those coquettes who 
think that their favors are more highly valued 
because they have to be prayed for. And Rose’s 
picture was not the only thing that he beheld 
within the frame. There suddenly came back to 
him, as in a mirror, the little work-room where 
her sisterly words had made clear to him her 
goodness and her depth of feeling ; the sad, com- 
plaining mother, object of her tender care; Mad- 
ame Desaubiers’ garden, and the little stream in 
whose murmurings had been lost the words that 
he then looked upon as a betrothal, although, after 
all no definite promise had been exchanged be- 
tween them, absolutely none. Why was it that 
he breathed more freely as he thought of this, as 
if his affections were relieved from a load that 
was bearing them down and were impatient to 
take* wing and settle in another quarter ? He 
stubbornly recalled them again to Rose, and in 
the process of this invocation became so insensi- 
ble to what was passing that he failed to hear 
some one knocking at his door. At least Scharf 
afterward said that he had knocked several times, 
quite loudly; what is certain is, that having made 


Expiation* 


*37 


his entry, he stealthily approached Bernard, who 
started and quickly shut the portrait in its case 
when he saw the watchful face peering over his 
shoulder. 

“ Excuse me,” said the Doctor, smiling. “ I 
am intruding. I have interrupted a tete-a-tete 
with your betrothed.” 

“ I don’t understand you,” Bernard shortly 
replied. 

“ Heavens! Can I have made a mistake? 
You seemed to be so completely absorbed in the 
contemplation of that young lady. . .Pardon 
me ! What an interesting face ! Will you allow 
me to look at it again ? ” And explaining to 
Bernard the cause, or the pretext of his visit, the 
Doctor applied himself to a scrutinizing examin- 
ation of the picture. “What wonderful depth of 
expression I I would wager that this person has 
talent that no obstacle can check the develope- 
ment of. And what feminine sweetness withal ! 
That is a woman who, when she loves, will make 
her love her religion, and he would be a wretch who 
should show himself unworthy of such a love. She 
is your betrothed ! Why could you not have 
told me so at first? I am glad to know that you 
have such a guardian angel.” 


Expiation. 


* 3 * 


“ Do you think that I am in danger ? Who is 
there that I require to be guarded against ?" 

“ Against your own self, perhaps ; and against 
Circe/' 

“ You talk in riddles." 

“ You do not care to understand. As you will. 
I will admit, if you force me to, that when the 
Countess administers her poisons to a man as 
young as you, and a Frenchman to boot, the effect 
is to deprive him of reason." 

“ I was expecting this conclusion. Now let 
fly your arrow against French frivolity and 
French gallantry, as you always do." 

“ I am not an expert with the bow, and should 
make a bad hand at shooting with it, but I can 
give you some good advice. I say that a young 
man and a Frenchman might be excused if he 
allowed himself to be fooled by tricks which 
have turned heads that are, to say the least, as 
level as his own." 

“ Doctor Scharf’s, for example." 

“For my part," seriously replied the Doctor, 
i( I have a mistress compared with whom all 
others in the world are as nothing. Her name 
is Science, and she soothes the imagination, which 
on the other hand, is unduly excited by the pur- 


Expiation, 


m 


suits of literature, which I take to be your favor- 
ite occupation, my dear sir. Moreover, I have 
none of those physical advantages which attract 
women.” 

Bernard could not help smiling, for he knew 
that the Doctor was almost as vain of his well- 
knit form, set off as it was by the delicate com- 
plexion of a young girl, as he was of his mental 
acquirements and his stern morality. 

“ Besides,” pursued Scharf, with ill-disguised 
vindictiveness, “no one has ever done me the 
distinguished honor of closing the doors of a 
house, which were formerly used to stand open 
to all comers, so as to enjoy undisturbed the 
pleasure of my society.” 

“ How do you interpret a caprice that is like 
so many others that have preceded it ? ” 

“ It is not for me to give the interpretation. If 
you had not interrupted me at every word, you 
would have known that you are everywhere re- 
garded as the Countess’ lover.” 

“ Her lover ! ” 

“ Don’t get excited. It is hardly necessary to 
say that such an idea could only have emanated 
from Italians, who are democratic, like all artists, 
in whose eyes personal beauty is of as much ac- 


%40 


Expiation. 


count as a patent of nobility ; or from that bare- 
faced Princess K., who always selects such hand- 
some little secretaries for her husband. But we 
know very well that certain favors are to be at- 
tributed only to the dearth of the moment, that 
the doctor or the tutor are used as make-shifts 
for an evening and have really nothing to boast 
of. That is how I explained matters yesterday 
to those good people from Genoa, who maintain 
that there is a scandal ; haven't you noticed 
that Fossombrone — he no longer gets any in- 
vitations here, by the way, and his visits are 
less frequent, and he is no longer the greatest 
singer in the world — haven’t you noticed that 
that great ninny Fossombrone, whenever he 
comes here, has hard work to keep himself from 
cutting your throat ? We will let these cast-off 
gallants talk as they please, and we will show the 
Countess that we have no inclination to one day 
swell their number.” 

“ You may be assured that, as far as I am con- 
cerned, there will never be any necessity of show- 
ing the Countess anything of the kind,” said 
Bernard, keeping himself in^countenance by put- 
ting away Rose’s portrait at the bottom of a lit- 
tle casket, where Scharf, near-sighted as he was, 


Expiation . 


141 


could distinguish perfectly a bundle of letters 
tied up with a blue ribbon. 

“ In any case, the remembrance of that sweet 
child would be your defence, I suppose. Again, 
pardon me ; I feel a sincere interest in you.” 

Smarting under the Doctor's insinuations, Ber- 
nard entered his pupil's chamber. The Count- 
ess was there ; it seemed to him that he was re- 
lentlessly pursued by a phantom that was im- 
placably bent on destroying his peace, and his 
strength came back to him, as it always does 
come back to us in the presence of great peril. 
He instantly resolved to steel himself against 
those wiles which had disgusted him when they 
were directed against others, and which were 
now concentrated upon him alone with the ob- 
ject of making him their victim. But the system 
of defence which he had planned for himself in 
his inexperience was disarranged by an unforseen 
change of tactics on the part of the enemy ; he 
did not encounter the foe whom he expected to 
meet ; he only saw a watchful mother at the bed- 
side of her son, tenderly and thoughtfully caring 
for him, awkward, it is true, about many things 
that were new to her experience, but apparently 
trying to atone for past neglect by her present 


142 


Expiation. 


zeal. Certainly the change had been a very sud- 
den one. Had he any right, however, to doubt 
its sincerity ? Moreover, had he the honest de- 
sire of looking clearly at their reciprocal rela- 
tions ? From this time, Madame Volonzoff made 
it a point to pass many hours each day at Di- 
ma’s bedside. The child’s puzzled glance, fall- 
ing now upon his mother, and now upon Ber- 
nard, seemed to enquire the reason of so great 
a change, but as it was to his advantage he soon 
became accustomed to it. Conversation and 
reading were carried on at his side, apparently to 
divert and please him. If Annette was base 
enough to convert the most sacred of all feelings, 
maternal love, into a lie and a snare, the trick 
was well laid and cunningly concealed, but in 
her attitude and her whole personality there was 
an indescribable expression of tenderness and 
humility, if I may say so, which exerted upon him, 
on whom she seemed to have no designs, a charm 
far greater than he had ever known before. 

She watched his countenance, consulted him 
with her eye without speaking, anticipated his 
wishes, soothing him with the most delicious of 
all flatteries, that which induces in a very young, 
inartificial man, the belief that he decides all 


Expiation. 




the doings of a woman older than himself, who 
had previously been remarkable for imperious- 
ness and strength of will. When by chance she 
met his eyes, she would turn her own away, and 
then Bernard would experience a thrill of pleas- 
ure. The presence of the child, which seemed 
to render their tete-a-tete safe and was its justi- 
fication as well, while at the same time giving 
them a means of escape from Scharf’s prying 
inquisition ; the dream of freeing from the 
miserable, childish interests which had hitherto 
possessed it, a soul created, as he believed, for 
nobler objects ; Annette’s reserve, which in- 
creased day by day, and which had dissipated 
not only her accustomed bold manner, but also 
her familiar ways toward himself : all these 
considerations contributed at once to reassure 
Bernard and to lure him on to his destruction. 

The effect upon the feelings of an early love, 
disguised under the form of ideal tenderness, is 
very misleading; it requires more than man’s 
strength to go scot-free under such circum- 
stances. Life slipped away deliciously at An- 
nette’s side, so changed as she was from her old 
self, and so captivating in the new part she was 
now playing. Bernard was as heedless of the 




Expiation* 


present as the opium-eater, or as the plant 
which keeps its face turned toward the sun as 
it rises and sinks, and little by little all his moral 
energy was exhausted in this condition of beati- 
tude, this Nirvana. She was conscious of it, 
and tightened the bonds which Delilah be- 
queathed to her likes. At this time, as she 
was nearing the goal of her ambition, she no 
longer felt ennui ; with an eager curiosity that 
was somewhat like passion, she counted the 
stormy beatings of this fresh and impression- 
able heart. She had reigned until she was 
tired ; now she was a little, trembling creature, 
and she found a piquant pleasure in her abdi« 
cation. Bernard looked to Rose for the sup- 
port which Scharf had foreseen he would need ; 
a thousand times he read her letters, a thou- 
sand times did he invoke her portrait. Why did 
the letters always seem cold ? Why did the 
portrait always seem to look at him with mute, 
sad eyes, vainly reproaching him ? It ended by 
his locking away in the casket, once for all, these 
poor relics that were powerless to save him. If 
he could have but also locked away the remem- 
brances that haunted him without helping or 
strengthening him ! What is the past under the 


Expiation . 


145 


enchantment of the present ? What was an 
angel like Rose compared with a woman like 
Countess Annette ? Perhaps he still continued 
to worship one upon the purest alter of his 
inmost thoughts, but he belonged body and 
soul to the other. 


146 


Expiation . 


VIII. 



BERNARD could not have told how 
long this new phase of his existence 
lasted. He was aroused from the 
agreeable stupor which was daily enfolding him 
more and more closely, and the delights of which 
made him think that there was nothing to be 
wished for beyond, by the sudden resurrection 
of the mad Countess in her old nature. The 
change was sudden and accompanied by a kind 
of delirium. 

It was the height of carnival. A note of invi- 
tation reminded Madame Volonzoff of the ball 
that she had promised to honor with her presence 
in the character of Roussalka. The costume had 
arrived from Paris, and the case in which it was 
contained still remained unopened ; Annette 
had said to Bernard with a smile,-— her smile, that 
concealed so much and was so eloquent with 
a hidden meaning : 




Expiation. 


*47 


“ You know that I do not intend to go." 

So she thought all the morning. She did not 
make her appearance at all in her son’s room that 
afternoon, and remained in the great drawing- 
room, which was almost always deserted now, 
but where the Doctor kept her company on this 
occasion. When evening came, she dined by 
herself in her apartment. 

“You are not eating, Monsieur Bernard,” said 
Scharf, who seemed to be in high spirits. “For- 
tunately they always have magnificent suppers at 
the Palace Fossombrone.” 

“ But I am not going to the ball.” 

“ Why not ? I am going, and I am a serious- 

minded man at least you are pleased to so 

designate me.” 

“ And in what kind of a case do you propose 
to pack away this seriousness of yours ? ” 

“What do you think of my g6ing as Clown, or 
as Punch ? A Venetian domino is suited to all 
ages and to all professions. You don’t show much 
curiosity. I would not miss seeing the Countess 
make her entree for anything in the world.” 

“ So she will go ? ” 

“Did you ever doubt it? You know very 
little about women. Their firmest resolutions 


14S 


Expiation. 


yield before a new costume and the imperious 
necessity of showing themselves in public.” 

That capped the climax. The day that he had 
just got through had seemed to Bernard a cen- 
tury. He had been constantly listening for the 
sound of a footstep, which, light as it was, his 
ear could always distinguish when it sounded at 
the end of the long gallery. Even Dima had 
noticed how sad and absent-minded he was. 
“What is the matter?” he asked, with tender 
anxiety. “ Have you received bad news from 
your friends at home ? Won't you tell me what 
troubles you ? I am sure that I always tell you 
everything. And perhaps I might comfort you, as 
you always comfort me. Would you rather tell 
mamma ? Why don’t she come to-day ? ” 

He was conscious of an undefined feeling of 
impatience under these innocent questions. 
Abandoning his quest for information, Dima con- 
tented himself with watching him whom he called 
his master, but who to-day was only a poor child 
as wretched as himself, as he gave way to the flood 
of bitter thoughts, his head leaning against the 
marble of the chimney-piece, his joined hands 
clasping his knee. Suddenly the rustling of a 
dress as it swept the stone pavement outside 


Expiation , 


149 


brought him to an erect position. He changed 
color and arose with a beating heart, frightened 
at the strength of his emotions. 

“Ah! there comes mamma ! " cried Dima, 
clapping his hands. 

The door opened, and the Countess advanced 
with a rapid step toward her son, apparently 
unconscious of Bernard’s presence. She was 
wrapped in a great, dark-colored mantle, 
lined with fur, and all of her that was visible 
was her head and face. Her hair this evening 
was of that peculiar red that Titian has so 
often depicted, though never so rich and abun- 
dant and so artistically arranged as hers. 

Her face, that seemed to be on fire beneath 
its coating of rouge, her eyes, inordinately 
lengthened and blackened by the pencil, gave 
her a strange expression, that somehow reminded 
one of the proud, disdainful anger of a god- 
dess ; perhaps she had aimed at this effect 
as suitable to the fantastic character that she 
had selected for herself. Like the Roussalka 
bursting from the shades of night, by a rapid 
movement she caused the satin folds of her 
mantle to fall on the floor at her feet. What 
was disclosed was not a costume, using the 


Expiation . 


* 5 ° 


word in its usual acceptation. There were knots 
and bows, spangles, shells, reeds, drops of crys- 
tal, golden and silver shells, billows of shimmer- 
ing silk defining the form which it made a pre- 
sence of concealing ; in a word, it was the get- 
up of a fairy, but the fine proportions and the 
lofty bearing of its wearer went far toward 
lessening the effect of its immodesty and its 
uncouth taste. 

Dima uttered an exclamation of astonishment, 
rather than of admiration, covering his face 
with his hands as if he were dazzled : 

"It is beautiful,” said he, “but it is not 
mamma ! ” 

“Mamma is a Roussalka this evening. Adieu! 
You need not kiss me, you will disarrange my 
hair ; I am going to the ball.” 

“You are going to the ball? But you are 
not going dressed like that, are you ? ” 

The child’s exclamation expressed so much 
terror that Bernard breathlessly waited to see 
what effect would follow. He imagined that he 
caught her blushing a little beneath her paint, 
and she hurriedly picked up her outer covering 
from the floor and placed it around her shoulders. 

“You foolish fellow!” said she, “it is the 


Expiation. 


* 5 ' 


fashion ; all ladies dress like this for the car- 
nival fetes. You have seen me disguised many 
a time, haven’t you ?” 

“Yes, but never so much as now,” stammered 
the child, with averted eyes. 

The mother just touched with her painted 
lips the cheek which the boy did not venture 
to offer her lest he might do some damage to 
the so-called toilette, then casting a strange 
look of defiance toward Bernard, who stood 
motionless, she left the room. 

He slowly fell back into the seat which he 
had left upon her entrance, at a loss to under- 
stand how it was that he had not thrown him- 
self at her feet to pray her to have pity on him, 
or that he had not prevented her from going at 
any risk, even if he had to kill her. He 
thought that he would follow her; it „ seemed 
as if a new nature, whose violence he could 
not restrain, had taken possession of his being. 
Annette and the Roussalka were two distinct 
images in his mind ; for the latter he felt only 
scorn and fierce desire, but the former, the 
woman , who had appeared to him during the 
few days that he now called his life-time, he 
felt that he could not resign himself to lose 


IJt 


Expiation. 


and he would have brought her back and saved 
her. Suddenly, when his madness was at its 
height, he remembered that Dima was by. He 
was mindful of the child to whom he had for- 
merly taught those virtues that he himself val- 
ued so little that he could forget them in a 
minute, who now saw him giving way to a des- 
pair of which he could not tell the cause. He 
mechanically went and sat upon the side of the 
bed and spoke to the boy. 

u Be silent, I beg you," Dima interrupted, put- 
ting his arm around Bernard’s neck ; “ remem- 
ber what you said to me once when I ran away 
and hid myself to cry ; * Shed your tears in my 
presence, if you love me.’ I know that a man 
never cries, but don’t pretend to seem cheerful 
when you are grieved.” 

Bernard received in silence the embrace of 
the only friend who could extend his pity to 
him, as being too innocent to guess his secret ; 
and then the tone of Dima’s voice, changed by 
emotion, had reminded him of the mother’s : it 
was a recollection of her. The bitterness that 
filled his heart overflowed in one of the infre- 
quent and burning tears that are unknown to 
childhood. 


Expiation . 


253 


He made no effort to sleep that night. He 
walked his room to and fro, now picturing in 
imagination with all the torments of hopeless jeal- 
ousy everything that was passing at the Palace 
Fossombrone, and the insolent admiration of 
which Annette was the object, now trying to ac- 
count for the sudden change that had taken 
place in her, and why it was that this change had 
caused him such mortal despair. Was it possi- 
ble that he was in love ? Could he be in love 
with her ? Was this love, this terrible, unrecog- 
nizable sensation, with its delirium like that of 
fever ? He pressed his heavy head, where the 
ideas seemed to be whirling in inextricable 
chaos, against the cool glass of the window. The 
stars were glittering like great diamonds set in 
the black vault of heaven ; the white railings of 
the terrace and the shadows of the pines, spread 
out like parasols, were clearly defined ; the pool 
reflected the cold rays of the wintry moon in its 
unruffled mirror. This contrast of the calm sever- 
ity of nature, sleeping in somber nakedness, with 
the ferment of the poor heart that was no longer 
under his control, might have impressed Bernard; 
but then we are not prone to philosophize whib 
we are smarting under the lash of suffering. 


*54 


Expiation. 


Through the window it seemed as if there was 
nothing visible except the long galleries of the 
Palace Fossombrone, where the allegorical fig- 
ures on the walls seemed to live and breathe in 
the dazzling light from the chandeliers, in the 
intoxicating odor of hot-house plants, while by 
hundreds characters from history and ro- 
mance, of all times and all countries, jostled each 
other in grand disorder at her feet, around her , 
for her delight and amusement. The fete was 
at the height of its splendor, the music played 
in delirious time, the waltzers floated by on 
wings, the senses were excited to a point of 
exaltation ; every one seemed to be imbued with 
the spirit of her costume. For was she not a 
born Roussalka, deceitful and cruel siren ? The 
tongues of the mothers were loosened, no con- 
sideration restrained their words ; what whis- 
pered avowals was she receiving, and what reply 
was she making ? How quickly she had forgot- 
ten him, and those hours of delicious friendship, 
during which he had thought that he had learned 
to know her ! And all the time she had been 
playing with him. To what end ? 

Unable to remain longer in his room with such 
thoughts for companions, he stopped in his me- 


Expiation . 


*55 


chanical walk, lighted a fresh cigar at one of the ex- 
piring candles and descended to the terrace, where 
at least he would no longer hear the eternal tick- 
tack of the clock as it measured the slow-paced 
hours of her absence. The night air did really 
exert a calming influence. He remained a few 
minutes without thinking, all his faculties be- 
numbed and inoperative. But this relief from ex- 
treme tension, this appearance of repose, was not 
of long duration. The sound of wheels again made 
his blood boil in his veins. But it could not be she 
as yet. She would not return before morning. 
The sound drew nearer, however ; the great gate* 
creaked as it swung upon its hinges. He entered 
the house, determined that she should not have 
the pleasure of witnessing the agitation that she 
had been the cause of. To return so early, her 
stay at the ball must have been very short. What 
motive could have induced her to return ? In 
his astonishment, the Countess came up with him 
in the vestibule. She uttered a low cry as she 
saw him. 

“ What, still up ? It is really not so very late, 
though, but the evening seemed long to me be- 
cause I was dreadfully bored." 

Bernard stammered out some kind of a confused 


Expiation. 


156 


explanation about his having been to the library 
for a book. 

Listening to him' with an incredulous air, she 
went up the marble staircase, preceding him by 
two or three steps. Suddenly she turned and 
confronted him with a frown upon her face ; her 
expression was troubled and sad. The rouge 
had fallen from her face ; the marble statue be- 
neath them, filling his post of torch bearer, was not 
whiter than she was under the shadow of her hood. 
She had twisted her lace handkerchief in her 
nervous fingers until it was torn to shreds. 

“ Listen/’ said she, in a low voice, but dwell- 
ing upon every word with solemn emphasis ; 
“ since you are here, I wish to know. .... Tell 
me, is it true that you left behind you in France 
a young girl whom you love and whom you are 
engaged to marry?” 

So, what he had taken for scorn and cruelty 
was jealous anger and revenge, and this was 
her way of confessing it. 

Everything seemed to Bernard to be whirling 
before his eyes ; he reeled and steadied himself 
against the baluster, which appeared to recede 
from him. He could never understand how it 
was that in this moment of surprise and nameless 


Expiation . 


i57 


rapture he could ennunciate the words : “ I 

love you. I have never loved any one but you ! ” 
His very soul came to his lips, as it were, in spite 
of himself, and he could not recognize the voice, 
that told him of it. A triumphant motion of the 
head, that meant, there was no mistaking its mean- 
ing: “At last ! ” had escaped the Countess. 
She bent over toward the young man, who saw her 
face close to his and felt her warm, sweet breath 
upon his cheek. He stretched out his arm, but 
as he suddenly drew it back, she said aloud : 

“’Till to-morrow.” 

A chambermaid, awaiting the Countess, had 
appeared at the head of the staircase. The door 
of a neighboring apartment closed, and Bernard, 
alone on the deserted staircase, might have fan- 
cied that it had all been a dream. 

The next morning, as he descended these same 
stairs, he met M. Volonzoff, who gave him a 
cordial shake of the hand. M. Volonzoff had 
not returned unexpectedly ; he had been ex- 
pected for several days, but Bernard had given 
no thought either to his return or to anything 
that had no bearing upon his great happiness. 

The sight of Annette’s husband troubled him. 
The liking that he had formerly felt for the 


Expiation. 


15S 


Count, however, like all the warm feelings that 
he had experienced up to this time, was now 
overmastered by that fever of the imagination 
and the senses, to which the severe way of life of 
his youth and his want of experience in adven- 
tures of this description, rendered him so much 
the more liable ; but he dreaded that clear in- 
sight which he had already had occasion to sec 
in operation, and which was never at fault when 
it was called upon. Under such circumstances, 
he wondered at and envied the imperturbable 
self-control that a woman of the world can main- 
tain when she is brought face to face with the 
most delicate situation. 

At the breakfast table Annette gaily scolded 
her husband for not having returned in time for 
the Fossombrone ball, as he had promised he 
would do. She gave him a comic description of 
the festivities which he had missed, and rallied 
Scharf upon his mysterious appearance in a 
Venetian domino. Thanks to her rattle, Bernard’s 
silence passed unnoticed. As they left the table, 
M. Volonzoff amicably took the young man’s 
arm and carried him off to talk about his son. 

“ I might have got home yesterday,” said he, 
“ if I had not stopped at Dresden to see a spe- 


Expiation. 


159 


cialist whom Scharf is in correspondence with. 
All that can be done now is to let nature take her 
course. That is the ultimatum which I bring 
home with me, and a discouraging one it is too, 
isn’t it? For it is a declaration from the most 
skilful doctors that they can do nothing further 
in the case. Well, in spite of all that, when I saw 
my poor boy again, I regained a little of my con- 
fidence. Perhaps there is no progress visible to 
you, who have been constantly at his side, but it 
is different with me after having been away two 
months. He is better, and we are indebted to 
you for it. You have done for him what no one 
else has succeeded in doing, and how he feels it ! 
How he speaks of you ! Really I ought to be 
jealous ! ” 

This last word, perhaps the only one that had 
reached Bernard’s ear, engrossed, as he was, in 
other thoughts, caused him to start ; he thought 
that his secret was discovered, and yet he dis- 
played a kind of unconcern in arriving at a reso- 
lution as to his course. “ In such a case as this,” 
he said to himself, “ a duel generally follows. It 
will be better to die thus for her than to live a 
long life.” Suddenly the thought of his inferior, 
dependent position struck him like the sharp lash 


i6o 


Expiation . 


of a whip across the face. “ Would he fight me?" 
The prospect that he would be discharged 
seemed much more probable, and all the galling 
pride that was in him filled him with hatred for 
the man who, but a moment ago, had been tell- 
ing him of his gratitude and his friendship. 


Expiation • 


161 


IX. 



LITTLE after this time Bernard 
broke the last link that connected 
him with the past by writing Mad- 
ame Desaubiers a letter, which he could never 
read in after days without a feeling of shame. 
The letter was long, but was written in vague 
terms. He thanked her for the advice which she 
had given him and gave her credit for its wis- 
dom ; she had surely done well in dissuading 
him from one of those premature engagements 
to which young people sacrifice their freedom 
before they have a chance to enjoy this 
most precious of all gifts. Experience alone 
enables us to read our own heart clearly, and 
to distinguish between friendship and real love. 
If, before his departure, he had asked Rose 
for her hand, the idea of recalling his promise 
would never have occurred to him, but as no 
such demand had been expressed in words, he 


x 62 


Expiation . 


trusted that sisterly affection would succeed 
those dreams which had doubtless deluded him 
alone, as Rose had never admitted that there 
was any hope of their realization. 

Bernard’s pen travelled more slowly here, for 
through this oblivion of the past that was in- 
vading his faculties more and more every day, 
he seemed to hear the echo of his own words, 
spoken by the side of the Seine : “ In all the 
world I shall find nothing so dear as what I 
am leaving here — I shall return to you.” But 
then the pain of separation is responsible for 
many a silly speech. He had loved Rose, and 
he loved her now, but not in a way to conflict 
with a passion that was stronger than his will. 
Was not this convincing proof that he had made 
a blunder when he ceased to look upon her as 
a sister? Fortified by this reasoning, he took 
up his pen again, for although he could not 
admit that there was any formal betrothal be- 
tween himself and Rose, he was anxious to 
avoid any misunderstanding. The language, 
the letters of this child had been those of a 
friend, but what could he say about the gift of 
her portrait, or the remembrance of her tears ? 
He knew that her loyalty was sufficient to make 


Expiation . 


*63 


her reject any proposition of marriage if she 
had reason to fear that it would bring to him 
any tinge of grief or disappointment ; it would 
be better that she should know the change 
that had been wrought in him by time, by the 
course of events, above all by his own reflec- 
tions, and Madame Desaubiers was the only one 
to whom could be entrusted so delicate a mis- 
sion. 

To make his bad action easier for him, Ber- 
nard heaped falsehoods on the top of sophisms; 
the letter was burned and rewritten several 
times before he was satisfied with it. He was 
angry with himself, and consequently hard and 
unjust. What was the use of all this consider- 
ation ? She, too, must have mistaken the nature 
of her feelings toward him. Love was the in- 
toxication which he drank in at Annette’s eyes, 
that irresistible force which brought them 
together in spite of everything. Rose did not 
love him so much as she loved her mother, so 
much as she loved her art ; he knew that she 
was too strong and self-contained to suffer long 
or deeply. In a word, she was an obstacle that 
was to be avoided or destroyed by calumny, in 
order that he might be spared remorse. 


Expiation . 


164 


He felt a sense of relief when he had got his 
letter off, and when he next saw Annette experi- 
enced tumultuous delight in telling her that he 
washers alone. It was hardly necessary for 
him to say so in words, his actions proved it so 
well. Only virgin hearts are capable of such a 
passion, that blazes up in a day and consumes 
everything outside of itself. Annette had suffi- 
cient experience to understand it, and showed 
great relish for a romance the like of which she 
had never read before. That she might enjoy it 
at her ease and lose no portion of it, she now 
employed every device that she had formerly 
used in awakening his love in restraining it 
within sentimental and platonic limits. She used 
her boundless power over him to prolong the 
timid ecstasies of a pure love. The sweet pre- 
cocious Italian spring-time was also favorable to 
this project. Over the distant palaces of Genoa 
were spread the beautiful transparent tints of 
azure and pink that are reflected to and fro from 
sea and sky ; the mountain ranges rose from the 
opal waters of the gulf, forming a girdle for the 
prospect whose minutest indentation the purity 
of the atmosphere made visible at great distance; 
the fresh verdure of the gardens, where the loves 


jEJxpiation. 


l6 S 


of Albano might have dwelt, was variegated' by 
the most beautiful flowers. The surroundings 
and the season could not have been more favor- 
able for an idyl. Their interviews, though inno- 
cent, were attended with precaution, for mystery 
and the dramatic element were dear to Annette’s 
heart. Possibly this prudence was not altogether 
assumed, perhaps it had become really necessary. 
M. Volonzoff’s surprise at this new-born liking 
of hers for a quiet life exceeded that which any 
of her previous caprices had ever aroused in 
him ; this conversion appeared to him more dan- 
gerous than the various mad fancies that he had 
so long been acquainted with. The Count had 
not a very favorable opinion of women ; he 
thought that the Orientals did very wisely in 
keeping them under lock and key, but in the ab- 
sence of a barred and grated harem, it was his 
opinion that a numerous troop of admirers served 
as well as anything else for a guard. But his 
Celimene had abdicated ; her court, upon the 
vigilance of which he had relied, had been dis- 
missed ; it appeared to him to be a bad sign. 
Henceforth Bernard felt that he was watched. 
He could not indulge in the reveries and abstrac- 
tions that lovers are so addicted to without being 


i66 


Expiation. 


conscious of a penetrating gaze fixed upon him, 
accompanied by a kind of scrutinizing pity. The 
doctor, too, kept his eye on him pretty faithfully, 
and his attitude expressed distrust, almost open 
hostility. 

One evening, when M. Volonzoff had gone to 
Genoa to dine with Fossombrone, leaving his 
wife at home suffering with a pretended head- 
ache, she thought that she recognized Scharf in 
a dark form that flitted rapidly beneath the bal- 
cony where she was sitting, not alone. He had 
withdrawn a few minutes before, under the pre- 
tence of some work that had to be done ; then 
Annette had left her piano to come and sit by 
Bernard and look at the stars, discoursing the 
while, in a voice full of promises for the future, 
upon the folly of squandering one's happiness 
too rapidly, there being possibly more pleasure 
in anticipation than in possession. The Count- 
ess was now and then pleased to embroil herself 
in far-fetched paradoxes and subtleties that 
would have been worthy of Scudery. Suddenly 
she exclaimed : “ There is some one listening ! ” 
and closed the window, while Bernard, without 
the loss of a second, hurriedly mounted the 
stairs to the Doctor's room, where he found that 


Expiation • 


167 


gentleman deep among his books. On his return 
to the drawing-room, he found M. Volonzoff 
there, chatting pleasantly. 

This immovable calmness and good humor was 
humiliating to Bernard. Had there been a danger 
to meet, it would have quieted his conscience 
and would even perhaps have been an additional 
inducement for him to persevere, but thus to 
betray with impunity a man whose guest he was, 
and who was his friend, was one of those coward- 
ly actions to which youth, generous even in the 
midst of its follies, can never resign itself with- 
out a feeling of shame. Still, his letter to Mad- 
ame D^saubiers had in a measure checked this 
feeling, for even if he were guilty, he had re- 
deemed his fault, in this quarter at least, by his 
frankness. Her answer to his letter came at 
last ; he had dreaded it, while he anxiously 
awaited it. It struck him like a thunderbolt. 

“ The painful charge which you place in my 
hands to execute, my child, is useless. Rose was 
aware before you were that you love her no more. 
For a long time I have seen the tears gather in 
her eyes whenever she speaks of your future, and 
resolutely parts it from her own. Remember 
that we have always read your letters together. 


263 


Expiation. 


We have seen their tone gradually change, with- 
out your being conscious of it, perhaps. With- 
out speaking of it to each other, we found in 
them something more than you thought you had 
written. Rose was the first to discover the truth 
concealed under your reticence, for she loves you 
as no one will ever love you again. Deny every- 
thing, if you will, but do not deny her love, even 
if it has become a burden to you, and above all, be- 
ware of attempting to convince the poor girl that 
you were the victim of an illusion, when you ap- 
peared to share it. She will suffer less, thinking 
you faithless. Do not tell her that you wish to 
give her back her liberty ; the changes of her heart 
are not for you to control ; moreover, she does not 
complain, and she accuses no one. Neither will 
I weary you with reproaches or advice. My 
letter has another object, entirely foreign to Rose. 

“I have to ask your forgiveness. Perhaps 
with the best intentions of doing good, I shall, 
have only succeeded in doing you an injury. 
Bernard, if I had said to you, when a chance 
that seemed to me providential so unexpectedly 
decided your future : 4 You will live beneath 
the roof of your own father, you will meet him 
in your daily intercourse/ would you have ac- 


Expiation . 


169 


cepted that dependent position with Count 
Volonzoff? The feeling of uncertainty which 
has beset me since I sent you away has become 
a burthen too heavy for endurance. At first 
I flattered myself that my inspiration to be silent 
was a good one : God had decreed that you 
should come together ; unconsciously to you 
both, blood would speak, in him as well as in 
you, and nature would assert her rights. So 
ready are we to believe that which we desire ! 

“ Again, pardon me ! I know not what feeling 
of dread suddenly came and mingled with these 
hopes and gained the upper hand, with all the 
strength of a presentment. Perhaps I ought to 
continue silent ; but I cannot ; I should seem 
to be an accomplice in a crime. It is not 
always easy, my child, to know the right. We 
lose our guiding star when we have once de- 
parted from the way of truth. With bitter re- 
pentance I acknowledge this, and I tender you, 
by my tardy confession, the only assistance that 
I have it in my power to give you. God grant 
that it may be the means of showing you the 
right way, and may this way bring you back to 


170 


Expiation. 


X. 

N the garden of the villa, as in most 
Italian gardens, there were several 
buildings, each designated by some 
high-sounding name : there was Erminia’s cave, 
Angelica's rock, the tomb of the Guelf, etc.; 
then in the centre of a verdant plot, where sev- 
eral walks converged, there was a dilapidated, 
moss-covered pavilion of rock-work which had 
long been condemned to disuse on account of 
its evil antecedents. The country people called 
it the Chamber of Love, and made a kind of 
little Tour-de-Nesle of it ; insisting that the 
ghosts of the numerous* lovers of a certain 
Princess Livia, who had had it built for her own 
private use, sometimes came and walked there 
at night. There were not many persons who 
had ever seen the interior of this little house. 
Madame Volonzoff had taken the key under 
pretence of seeing if it could not be converted 




Expiation. 


*n 


into a summer house, but subsequently seemed 
to have abandoned her project. Still, on the 
day when she took it into her head to receive 
Bernard there, the old boudoir presented quite 
a gay appearance with its tarnished mirrors, its 
crumbling cornices, and its figured, rat-eaten 
tapestries. Seated in the dim light that filtered 
through the lowered blinds, somewhat pale, as 
is fitting when one acknowledges one’s self 
conquered (it was the first serious appointment 
that she had accorded Bernard, and the probable 
end of the Platonic chapter), Annette, to judge 
by the portrait of a powdered nymph who had 
long been subject to the ravages of dust and 
damp, was more irresistible than the Countess 
Lijia had ever been. Her morning dress of 
lace and muslin was in perfect harmony with 
the scene and the situation. At the sound of a 
footstep in the distance, she placed her hand 
upon her heart. “ I really love him ! ” said she. 

The shutters were tightly closed and there 
was nothing to indicate from the outside that 
there was any one in the pavilion. Annette had 
guarded against every contingency, and there 
was nothing to fear ; still she trembled, a chill 
passed through her, she was more dead than 


172 


Expiation. 


alive. These sensations, so different from the 
comedy of coquetry in which she had been pre- 
eminent until now, affected her with a singular 
trouble and made her still more beautiful. 

“ You let me wait already ! ” said she, 

with a smile which, the day before, would have 
brought him to her feet. He knelt, in fact, but 
more like a condemned man suing for mercy 
than a happy lover. His features showed such 
change that she cried : “ What is the matter ? 
You frighten me.” Then with the incoherence 
of despair, he stammered that he was 'unworthy 
of her, that he prayed she would forget his 
boldness, that honor commanded him to fly, 
that he appeared in her presence for the last 
time, that he would die rather than carry her 
down with him into such a foul abyss. At first 
Annette was disposed to pity this madness. 
“ The poor child,” she thought, “ is out of his 
head ; his happiness has proved too much for 
him ; ” and half in joke and half in earnest, she 
tried to reassure him ; but when he mentioned 
her husband, she said, drawing herself up haught- 
ily, “I did not suppose that you were here 
to talk about him. Again I ask you, what has 
happened since yesterday ? ” 


Expiation. 


*73 


This was the only question that he could not 
answer. Determined to keep his secret, un- 
nerved by his tortures, the bitterest of which at 
the moment was the sense that he had made him- 
self supremely ridiculous, he talked without 
knowing what he was saying, unable even to rec- 
ognize the sound of his own voice, until at last the 
Countess, passing by him with an air of disdain, 
cast at him from the door these crushing words, 
accompanied by a low, cutting, scornful laugh : 

“ It is very evident, Monsieur, that you have 
been in the neighborhood of the theological 
school. You have been preaching me a sermon; 
you forget that sermons are not to my taste, es- 
pecially when the time is so ill-chosen.” 

She turned and left him, swift as an arrow, 
grazing the long laurel hedge as she went. But 
she lessened her speed and looked back, waiting 
for him to follow her. But no; the path was 
silent and deserted. Suddenly she stopped and 
listened, with laboring breath, tempted on the 
one hand to return to the pavilion, on the other, 
restrained by a last remnant of pride. There 
are some women who can never bring themselves 
to admit that a man, whatever he may be, can 
resist or escape them, 


i?4 


Expiation. 


Madame Volonzoff's attention had first been 
attracted toward Bernard by his extreme reserve 
and by the chilling disapprobation of her which 
was frequently visible in his manner. She had 
next amused herself, there being no more excit- 
ing pastime at hand, by trying to bedevil his 
senses, and the mischief that she had hatched for 
him recoiled upon herself, without, however, 
taking full possession of her. When, contrary to 
all probability, he would have nothing more to do 
with her and repulsed her advances, she at last 
felt how much he was to her. 

Was this love story, then, whose incidents she 
had controlled with such art, in expectation of a 
very different termination, to wind up with a 
simple adieu, supplemented with a lesson in mo- 
rality ? She allowed her clenched hands to fall 
to her side upon her dress, and there they found 
the traces of Bernard’s tears. “ He was crying ! ” 
she said to herself. “ I was too quick in my 
anger. These fears are childish, but they are 
touching ; they always exist in company with a 
fresh, tender, submissive love, a first love, in a 
word. I failed to understand him.” Annette 
continued with fresh anger, this time directed 
against herself, “ But he will come back to me, 


Expiation. 


*75 


and the quicker that I shall use no means to 
bring him back.” 

The fear that he should not find her there with 
his pardon all ready and awaiting him, made her 
press on more quickly. She wished him to think 
that she was angry with him. “ Who wouldn’t 
have been ? ” She was ashamed of her weakness. 

As she entered the house she came upon her 
husband, talking with Doctor Scharf. He seemed 
troubled and anxious. 

“Well ! ” said he impulsively, “you know that 
Bernard is going to leave us ? ” 

Annette felt her knees giving way under her ; 
not daring to trust her voice in reply, she fell into 
the nearest chair. 

“ You are as much astonished as I was myself,” 
continued M. Yolonzoff. “This morning he told 
me that necessity compelled him to return to 
France at once. I tried vainly to make him tell me 
why ; he is impenetrable. I wanted him at least to 
give me his promise to return, for I dread Dima’s 
grief. The child has had more fever the last few 
days. I was just talking to the Doctor about it. 
It is really a great annoyance.” 

“ Is there no way of keeping him ? Money 
changes so many plans,” Scharf insinuated. 




Expiation , 


“You are not a good judge of men. Our 
friend’s disinterestedness is above all suspicion. 
If he says that he cannot even grant us a respite, 
there are doubtless motives that we must respect, 
much as we regret that they should exist. An- 
nette, the Count continued without raising his 
eyes, “ have you any idea of the cause of this 
departure ? ” 

Her only answer was a gesture in the negative. 

“No one knows anything of M. Bernard/* 
said the Doctor, “ either from whence he comes 
or whither he is going/’ 

“ Oh ! it is very well known that you have 
always looked upon him as a rival,” drily replied 
the Count. And he commenced to silently per- 
ambulate the room, as was his habit whenever he 
was trying to overcome his anger or mature some 
plan. He was angry with womankind in general 
and with his own wife in particular. He thought 
that Bernard was doubtless flying of his own ac- 
cord from a foolish passion which he knew there 
was no hope of being returned ; he cared noth- 
ing for the love episode, but why must Dima be 
made to suffer ? 

In the meantime rapid glances Aad been ex* 
changed between Annette and the Doctor, which 


Expiation. 


W 


signified on the one side, “ I have something to 
say to you," and on the other “ I am at your dis- 
posal." After one more turn from the fireplace 
to the door, Mr. Volonzoff left the room without 
having devised any remedy for the trouble which 
he thought he now had a clear idea of, although' 
it seemed to him of very small importance. 

“ Doctor," the Countess then said with forced 
calmness, “ what do you think of all this ? " 

“ What ! about the tutor ? I think that the 
lady who is awaiting him down yonder, mistress 
or betrothed, or whatever she may be, is becom- 
ing impatient, that she wants to see him again, 
and that he is obedient to orders. His love for 
her is stronger than his pretended attachment 
> » 

“You have already mentioned this woman 
more than once," Annette interrupted, and her 
eyes all at once assumed a greenish hue and 
emitted feline glances that augured ill for some- 
body. The Doctor made a sign of assent. 

“Well, I don’t know how you could have been 
deceived so, for there is no such woman in ex- 
istence." 

“ Ah ! he told you so, did he, and you believed 
him ? You believed him in preference to me?" 


Expiation. 




“ You did not give me any proof.’' 

“ Because I could not have supposed that the 
love affairs of an inferior would interest you.” 

“ I would not say that they interest me; that 
is too strong an expression; but I am curious. 
This sudden departure perplexes me.” 

“ Still there can be nothing plainer ; he spoke 
to the Count after the arrival of the postman, 
who brought him a letter.” 

“ Are you certain ? Pshaw! a letter from his 
family, probably.” 

“ You know that he has no family. That is 
all that our mysterious young friend has conde- 
scended to tell us about his affairs.” 

“ But perhaps he has a gentleman friend who 
writes to him.” 

“ Is it probable, Madame, that he would keep 
such letters under lock and key, tied up with 
ribbon, and in company with a likeness, a tress 
of hair and pressed flowers ? ” 

“Have you seen all that ?” 

“ And then I can assure you that this friend 
has magnificent eyes — in a word just as like a 
young lady of eighteen as you can imagine.” 

The Countess gave a little shrug of her 
shoulders. To a casual observer she would 


Expiation . 


179 


have appeared incredulous and indifferent, but 
it was not easy to deceive Doctor Scharf. Be- 
neath that palpitating breast there was a raging 
storm of outraged pride, rage, jealousy, and a 
burning thirst for vengeance. So he had dared 
to lie to her ! While sitting by her side, his 
thoughts had been with another, and this person, 
some Parisian grisette, no doubt, though far 
away, had worsted her in the conflict and was 
about to deprive her of her prey ! 

“ Of course, it doesn’t matter much to you,” 
continued Scharf, “but you doubted my veracity 
once because I could not produce my proofs. I 
should like to show you that I am right. Would 
you like to see these proofs ?” 

The Countess, in her eagerness, stretched forth 
her hand, but disguised the involuntary move- 
ment by taking her fan from a table that stood 
near. “I don’t believe that you can produce 
them,” said she. Her lips, to which she sum- 
moned a forced smile, were pale and trembling. 
Scharf drew near and stood before her, looking 
her in the eyes. 

“ Madame,” said he, “ to satisfy a desire of 
yours, I would dare anything.” She drew back 
her chair, disconcerted by the brutal intentness 


i8o 


Expiation . 


of his gaze. “ I am yours, body and soul. I 
have no doubt that you are well aware of this, 
although I have never said so in words. I am 
no longer satisfied to be counted as one among 
the throng of your adorers, and that, too, in the 
rear rank — to stoop to pick up the crumbs of love 
that you condescend to scatter around you. I 
was never cut out for the Angelic role; that is 
too suitable to beardless young Frenchmen. It 
is my ambition to leave you something that will 
make you remember me, even if it be at the 
price of my life, and in exchange to receive from 
you a favor that you have never granted to 
any one.” 

“A favor for a service; what you propose 
seems to me very like a bargain,” said the 
Countess with disdain. 

“ Everything in this world is a matter of 
purchase and sale, Madame. I cannot endure 
to be a dupe. Reflect, that theft will have to be 
committed here. I spoke of my life ; I would 
risk even more than that at a word from you. 
Are you unwilling, in return, to run the risk of 
compromising yourself ? This evening, this 
very night, at an hour that we shall agree on, 
I will bring you, or rather you shall come and 


Expiation . 


181 


demand from me, the proofs which will clear up 
every doubt in regard to what you desire to 
know. I have in my mind that lonely pavilion, 
the Chamber of Love, as it is called, among the 
trees of the park." 

“ I fail to see the use of such romantic pre- 
paration.” 

“ Pardon, Madame, it is to be all my recom- 
pense. Let your accomplice bear away with 
him the illusion of having been once received 
as your lover.” 

The Countess had listened to this strange 
speech, swayed by the magnetism of an overpow- 
ering will which seemed to stupefy her. As 
Scharf finished, she raised her eyes and was ter- 
rified by the expression which she read in his 
face, from which he had let fall the mask that 
habitually concealed it. 

“ To-morrow, perhaps, he will be gone, and 
you will never learn what you want to know. Do 
you accept my offer, or do you refuse to trust 
me, and my respect for you ? ” 

She hesitated ; then in a voice that betrayed 
deep agitation and at the same time expressed an 
undefined threat, she said : “ Let it be as you 

will.” 


i8a 


Expiation, 


XI. 



j O any one who could have read the 
minds of the inhabitants of the villa 
there would have been an exhibition 
of the most conflicting passions. Annette’s 
wounded susceptibilities, in connection with her 
burning curiosity, had displaced the mistrust 
with which she had at first regarded the Doctor’s 
impudent offer. Women who consider nothing 
in the world but themselves and their passing 
fancies always go straight to their end, using 
every available means, disregarding every risk. 
Scharf was, in her eyes, the tool that is to be 
broken after it has been used ; perhaps he was 
a more formidable instrument than it suited her 
to believe. It was the first time that this man 
had given free rein to instincts of the strength of 
which he was himself ignorant. For three long 
years he had subordinated them with stern inflex- 
ibility to calculations that were more important to 


Expiation. 


« 83 


him than anything else — to the task of building 
up his fortune. For three years the Countess 
had been to him as the star is to the child who 
would seize it in his grasp, set high in the heavens 
at an immeasurable distance beyond his reach. 
But when he saw her descend from the firmament 
where she gravitated in company with her satel- 
lites, Russian generals and Italian princes, to 
throw herself into the arms of a little French 
tutor, he made oath to himslf that he would at 
least stand on as good footing as this contempt- 
ible rival. When he burned his ships, it was 
with a kind of rage against himself and against 
her who had thus made him recreant to the 
principles of his whole life ; but it behooved him 
to see that the ships were not burned without 
something to show for it. The Doctor's plan 
embraced three objects : Revenge on Bernard, 
whom he was jealous of ; also on M. Volonzoff, 
who had so often wounded his personal pride 
and patriotic susceptibilities ; finally to retaliate 
on a coquette, from whose influence he could not 
abstract himself, while at the same time he held 
her in detestation. He felt assured that this 
libertine Frenchman had been carrying on two 
love affairs at once ; he knew where to find the 


Expiation* 


184 


documents that would denounce him, and he 
trusted to the Countess' indignation at sight of 
them, to darkness and solitude, to his own elo- 
quence, to other and more decisive arguments if 
they had to be used, to gain for him the reward 
of his stratagem. This euphemistic way of put- 
ting it sufficed to quiet the hypocrite’s not very 
troublesome conscience. 

It was an easy matter to get possession of the 
casket of letters, for Bernard was devoting his 
entire evening to his pupil, whom he now in his 
mind called brother, and who now seemed to 
have a closer claim than ever upon his tenderest 
attentions, although he knew that he should have 
to leave him before long. The effect of Madame 
D6saubiers' revelation had been like that of an 
alarm-cry sounded in the ears of a man sleeping 
on the verge of a precipice and awakening him 
from some intoxicating dream. His first impulse 
was to banish his criminal passion ; he was filled 
with horror at the nearness of the danger he had 
escaped. He could not forget Annette quite yet, 
but neither could he forget that she was his 
father's wife. His father ! How often had he 
dreamed of finding him and making himself 
known to him by some heroic action ! He had 


Expiation. 


185 


accomplished a noble deed, it is true, but silent- 
ly and in the dark ; there was no apparent merit, 
and there could be no possible reward. It was 
to be followed, too, by another, no less incom- 
prehensible and almost equally painful, the part- 
ing with Dima. Twenty times did Bernard’s 
lips part to say the word Farewell \ and each 
time the word was arrested on his tongue by 
some fond word from the poor child. Besides 
the feverish little hand which clasped hi§ own 
interceded more powerfully than the most touch- 
ing speech could have done ; it seemed to say : 

“ I shall not have many favors to ask from you. 
Do not rob me of a single one of the minutes 
that you can pass at my bedside, which are now 
so few. Let the sunshine which your presence 
has always brought to me continue to irradiate 
what little remains to me of life. When you are 
gone, what will become of me ? Suppose that I 
should die while calling upon you, reproaching 
you with your forgetfulness ? Could you ever 
pardon yourself for my death, which would be 
so sad without you at my side, which would be 
so sweet and resigned if only you would let it be 
so?” 

These were the words that Bernard heard in 


i86 Expiation . 


imagination, and passing his arm around the 
child as if to protect him, he could only murmur 
in his ear, “My child! My poor child! " — so that 
Dima went to sleep without having learned of 
his instructor's intended departure on the follow- 
ing day. 

“ Were it not for seeing her again," he thought 
with a shudder, “I would remain another day. 
I may have more courage to-morrow, or perhaps 
he will be stronger and better able to bear the 
parting." 

M. Volonzoff was greatly agitated. After a 
close examination of the motives which could 
have induced Bernard's sudden resolution, he had 
abandoned his first conjectures. He had no 
doubt that the young man was in love, but was 
it despair that had influenced him to go away ? 
Might not Annette at last have fallen victim to 
her own wiles, and experienced the love which 
she was only trying to inspire in another ? It 
was possible that there was an understanding be- 
tween them, and that a lingering delicacy re- 
strained Bernard from betraying him in his own 
house ; or did he wish to place himself on a more 
equal footing with the Countess by renouncing 
his salaried, dependent position, which he felt as 


Expiation . 


187 


a humiliation ? These considerations occupied 
M. Volonzoff’s thoughts during a portion of the 
night ; he was turning them over in his mind 
with all the coolness that he was capable of, 
when a watch-dog barked under his windows and 
then was silent, as if he had recognized some 
one of the inmates of the house. Under the in- 
fluence of his present preoccupation, the Count 
went to the window and looked out, taking care 
to let fall the curtains behind him, so that the 
front of the villa might remain in darkness and 
not betray his wakefulness. The night, which 
in the Italian spring-time is generally bright with 
stars, was dark ; great storm-clouds were hang- 
ing low over the grounds ; still he thought that 
he saw a shadow cautiously leave a small turret 
in which was a private staircase leading to the 
apartments of the Countess. This was sufficient 
to make him leave the house, first slipping a 
loaded pistol into his pocket. The figure was 
some distance ahead of him, but having once 
seen it plunge into the labyrinth of shrubbery, 
M. Volonzoff promptly skirted the long hedge, 
on the other side of which he was conscious of 
rapid feet skimming over the gravel. When he 
reached the turn where stood a great marble 


i88 


Expiation. 


vase, the apparition that he was following van- 
ished within the pavilion which stood there. 

For a long time the Count had systematically 
treated his wife with the extreme of toleration, 
but this toleration had its restrictions and its 
limits ; there was no one less likely than he to 
assume a place among complaisant or deceived 
husbands. “ At this time of night she can only 
be expecting a lover,” he thought, as he took his 
position, leaning against a tree. “ Well ! let him 
come ; there is a warm reception awaiting him!” 

With a concentrated, cold rage that made even 
his lips white, but which did not cause his hand 
to tremble, he cocked his pistol and stood wait- 
ing with his finger on the * trigger ; five minutes 
scarcely, but they seemed five centuries to him. 
He would have been glad to have less time for 
reflection. 

“I am right,” he thought ; 41 she has brought 
it on herself. Still, it will be a merciful act to 
spare her. Yes, I will leave her to her remorse. 

As for him, miserable fool ! Will he 

never come ? ” 

A thousand other thoughts came to him, min- 
gled with his resolves for vengeance. He recalled 
Bernard's youth, and the esteem, confidence and 


Expiation . 


189 


friendship which he, usually so sparing of such 
feelings, had always evinced toward this ingrate. 

His just anger was almost overmastered by a 
bitter feeling of sorrow. It was not a night that 
invited murder, although it was dark and mys- 
terious. Heavy odors floated in the moist, 
motionless air. Everything seemed to slumber ; 
beneath the thick shade of the foliage faint little 
sounds were heard, like half-drawn sighs. An un- 
utterable peace, source of deep, voluptuous de- 
light, diffused itself from the veiled sky and arose 
from the sleeping earth; all nature seemed instinct 
with the sense of love, while here there stood a 
man, defiant of all these sweet influences, given 
over to hatred, waiting to shed blood. 

At length footsteps were heard again, and a 
second phantom, masculine in form this time, 
emerging from the shadows of the shrubbery, 
advanced in the direction of the pavilion. Quick 
as lightning M. Volonzoff had covered him with 
his pistol, but his hand fell to his side involun- 
tarily. 

“No," he murmured, “I will not kill him in 
cold blood." He could not bring himself to fire 
upon his enemy from behind, without warning. 
Already, however, the dark figure was knocking 


Expiation 


i go 


at the shutter, which creaked upon its hinges. 
“ One word ! ” said he, coming forward from his 
place of concealment. 

The other person turned with a start. “ The 
Count ! ” he exclaimed, thunderstruck. The 
exclamation sufficed to tell that it was Scharf. 
M. Volonzoff experienced a strange sensation of 
relief as he recognized the voice. 

“What! it is you?” he said in turn. “Will 
you explain what you are doing here?” And as 
the Doctor hesitated to answer, seeking to collect 
his thoughts, “ Perhaps you would rather that 
I should kill you like a dog? ” 

Scharf felt the pistol against his throat; he 
pushed it away, and in a tone of injured inno- 
cence : “ If you kill me,” he said, “you will be 

punishing an act of blind devotion on my part. 
I know that appearances are against me, the most 
faithful of your servants. You would not believe 
the truth that I can tell about this affair.” 

“Tell it without further words. And first, 
this assignation ” 

“ There was no assignation,” replied Scharf, 
intentionally raising his voice, while the Count 
spoke in low tones ; “ I am alone ; I came here 
to leave some papers that are to convince a 


Expiation . 


I 9 I 


certain person, whom I respect beyond all else 
in the world, of a deceit that her generous nature 
would not have allowed her to believe without 
these proofs. She resented the insulting ad- 
vances of a coxcomb by driving him from her 
presence, but that is mot sufficient ; she must 
know the exact degree in which the wretch was 
guilty toward her.” 

“ And so you came in the depth of night ” 

“ It was not I who selected the time for assur- 
ing the safety of these letters that Madame the 
Countess will read and acquaint herself with 
when she sees fit.” 

“ Come, come ! you are trifling, Monsieur 
Scharf,” the Count interjected, angrily pushing 
open the shutter of the pavilion. “Let us 
make an end of this ridiculous story. Do you 
think that I don’t know that there is some one 
waiting here for you?” 

Without relaxing his hold on his prisoner, he 
entered the building and struck a match. Its 
light showed the room to be untenanted. Like 
all structures of its kind, the place had two 
doors. Annette, therefore, at the first sound of 
high words, had made her escape by one of the 
covered alleys which terminated at the round- 


Expiation. 


19a 


point. The Doctor, who had anticipated this, 
breathed more freely. M. Volonzoff was thought- 
ful, glad perhaps that the scandal was no greater, 
though his inmost convictions on the subject 
remained unchanged. After a short pause, he 
resumed, in a sharp, imperious tone : 

“ Where are those papers that you spoke of ? ” 

Scharf had the casket concealed beneath his 
cloak ; he produced it and placed it on the table. 
“ They are here ; but I shall only deliver them,” 
he added, with returning boldness, “ to the per- 
son whom they concern.” 

“ I will see that the person gets them,” said 
the Count, laying a firm hand upon the stolen 
letters. “ You will understand, sir, that I am 
curious to see for myself what there is in all 
these underhand proceedings. As regards your- 
self, let me say to you that I can allow no one 
to be, unknown to me, so jealously careful of my 
honor ; excessive zeal is a mistake. You will 
receive letters from your family to-morrow, 
summoning you home in all haste, and you will 
leave this house. You understand me ? ” And 
as the Doctor was on the point of making further 
explanations, he added : “You need say noth- 
ing more. I understand you perfectly.” 


Expiation . 


*93 


The words thief and traitor were not uttered, 
but none the less Scharf could read them in 
the scornful look that burned into his soul like 
a red hot iron. He was blind with rage, and 
would have had recourse to violence had he not 
luckily remembered that he had to do with a 
man of equal, if not of superior, strength to him- 
self. The cocked pistol, too, was particularly 
efficacious in bringing him to his senses. He 
yielded, therefore, with the comforting thought 
that he had discharged this Parthian arrow 
against Bernard by accusing him as he had done, 
and that the arrow was poisoned and would 
prove fatal. 

A few moments later the Count was back in 
his room, bending over his desk, on which lay 
Madame Desaubiers’ letters. The first words to 
meet his eye, after he had broken open the 
casket, in which he had expected to discover 
matter of a different kind, were these : “ When 
that chance which to me seemed providential so 
unexpectedly decided your future, if I had said 
to you * You will be living under the same roof 
with your own father, you will meet him in your 
daily intercourse/ would you have accepted the 
position with Count Volonzoff ?” He read the 


194 


Expiation . 


letter over many times, and the light which he 
dreaded, while he desired it, dawned upon his 
mind. ■ All beside, compared to this, was as 
nothing. Memory carried him back to years 
long past, to a bright spring morning when, 
among the roses that were blooming around her, 
he had met a little rose of flesh and blood that 
his passing caprice had breathed upon and 
blasted ; he had never turned back to see what 
became of her after she had been trodden under 
foot in the mire which God never intended for 
her. Poor forgotten little rose ! the memories 
of her that now arose in him were tenderer than 
ever they had been before ; a fragment of his 
vanished youth came back to him with her. 
And then there passed before his inner vision a 
second form, purer than the first, nobler, loved 
with a deeper and better love ; the only one of 
her sex who had ever inspired in his heart that 
tender feeling that he could not bestow upon a 
mother or a sister, being an orphan and an only 
child ; the only woman who had ever succeeded in 
really reaching his heart, from which that death, 
which we call absence, had never been able to dis- 
place her. He could not recall her without at 
the same time waking in her company a train of 


Expiation . 


m 


the tenderest feelings ; he felt that he could not 
look upon her with indifference, even if she 
were grown old and changed beyond recog- 
nition ; she would always be in his eyes, as she 
had always been, the ideal woman ; for others, 
no matter in what station of society, he felt only 
disdain. Why had he always made pleasure his 
supreme end in his intercourse with women ? 
Why had he made birth and wealth the condi- 
tion of his ill-mated marriage ? His sad thoughts 
were turned to the v bitter fruits that had been 
the product of this union, the result of the 
dictates of a senseless pride, vexations without 
number, and a frail scion that was doomed to 
die. If the present outlook was gloomy, the 
future was no less so. Involuntarily M. Volon- 
zoff took refuge in the past, which lay in the 
bottom of this Pandora's box that had been 
stolen by fraud and opened by violence, and 
the past was presented to him in the features 
of this young man, so like the son that he would 
have wished for to worthily carry down his 
name. “ And he is really my son ! ” he thought 
with an ineffable, confused fe.eling of joy and 
stupefaction. 

In the eyes of this man, who attached a 


Expiation . 


supreme inportance to the laws and customs, and 
even the slightest prejudices of the world, it 
appeared a monstrous injustice that one of his 
children, who had acquired his education in 
obscurity and retirement by dint of sheer hard 
work, should have been produced by such a 
train of circumstances to undertake the educa- 
tion of another child of his. He was moved as 
he thought of the blooming youth of the one 
sacrificed to the sickly childhood of the other, 
and a mist, which he brushed away with his 
hand, arose before his dry eyes, which knew not 
how to weep. 

“ What is to be done ? ” he asked himself. It 
did not seem as if he could let Bernard go, and 
still he saw no way of preventing him ; he could 
not open his heart to the woman to whom he 
must shortly appear in the character of master 
and judge. He spent the remainder of the night 
in anxious deliberation upon this dilemma. The 
candles had burned down to their sockets and 
the bluish daylight was beginning to appear 
through the windows when he arose from his 
chair saying : “ In the first place I will test him.” 

And this is how he made his test. 

Very early in the morning, the Count, ex- 


Expiation. 


197 


tremely pale, entered Bernard's bed-chamber. 
“ Do you still persist," he asked, “ in the resolu- 
tion that you spoke to me of yesterday ? " 

“ There is no other course for me to take," the 
young man replied. 

“We are in great trouble. Doctor Scharf is 
obliged to absent himself for a time, and then 
again change of air is recommended for Dima, 
who is suffering from a feverish attack. I want 
him to go and take up his summer quarters 
among the Alps, but who will go with him, if you 
are unwilling to take charge of him ? " 

“'Will you not be there with the Countess ?” 
M. Volonzoff shook his head. “ We shall not 
go until a little later on. For the present, there 
is no one that he needs so much as you." 

Bernard had no suspicion of the true state of 
affairs ; he wondered whether the Count was 
proceeding on guess-work, or whether he had 
discovered everything. This latter hypothesis 
seemed the more probable to him when later on 
he became aware, with an agitation that may be 
readily conceived, of the disappearance of the 
letters. At all events, circumstances seemed to 
favor him, and he yielded to their guidance. 

“ Such being the condition of affairs," he an- 


198 


Expiation. 


swered, “ 1 cannot refuse to remain at my post — 
temporarily at least— no matter what the sacri- 
fice.” There was something more than gratitude 
in the look which the Count bestowed on him as 
he thanked him. 

He did not see Annette again. One of those 
indispositions, which nervous women know so 
well how to summon up when needed, explained 
the reason why Dima, before he set out, was the 
only person that she said good-by to. The child 
came from the interview in tears ; his mother, too, 
had wept, so he told Bernard, as if she never ex- 
pected to see him again. “ And still,” h& re- 
peated in a tone that was half interrogative, “ we 
shall all be together again in Switzerland.” 


Expiation. 


199 


XII. 


HE Chalet that had been hired for 
Bernard and Dimitri was too near 
Clarens for us to attempt to compete 
with Rousseau by venturing on a description 
of this bank of Lake Leman. It stood in front of 
a well-shaded slope covered with chestnut groves, 
in full view of the mountains of Savoy, whose 
stern beauty contrasts admirably with the fertile, 
pastoral aspect of the Pays de Vaud. On one 
hand were vineyards, pastures and orchards ; on 
the other the domes, peaks and gigantic pyramids 
known as the Aiguille du Midi , the Dents d’Oche, 
the Chaumeny , the Velan } and the dark walls 
from which rise the rocks of Meillerie were 
grouped in a panorama that defies description ; 
but the nearest object to attract the gaze was the 
Castle of Chillon, mirrored in the lake, deep 
sunk in whose depths, like roots of stone, lie its 
courses of masonry, hewn from the living rock, 



200 


Expiation. 


and that square tower, gazing from between 
whose bars Byron has shown us the sad, stern 
features of the prisoner, who, so powerful is time, 
at last came to love his chains. There is a feel- 
ing that is well known to all who have travelled, 
or rather sojourned, among the Alps ; it is the 
sensation of restfulness that is instilled into the 
most troubled minds by various natural causes 
acting in concert ; the grandeur of the scenery, 
the purity and clearness of the air, the prattling 
murmur of the water courses, and the awful 
silence of the glaciers in their resistless, never 
ceasing march. Bernard, after the violent efforts 
that he had made to regain his self-control, his 
energy exhausted, had sunk into a discouraged 
state of doubt and perplexity. What might be 
M. Volonzoffs intentions ? If he was ignorant 
of his guilty passion, why hacT he afforded him 
the opportunity of going away, and if, on the 
other hand, he was cognizant of it, why did he 
give him a mark of such absolute confidence as 
to entrust to his care that which was dearest to 
him in all the world ? He sometimes suspected 
Scharf’s treachery, whose departure he was un- 
able to account for ; but more frequently he 
seemed to be merely a passive instrument in the 


Expiation . 


201 


hands of a father, who was powerful to do with 
him as he would. His face, too, would flush and 
blaze with shame at the thought that she, who was 
the cause and the witness of his weakness, would 
never understand that conduct which he could 
never explain and which she would retaliate by 
her ineradicable contempt. What must Annette 
think of him ? It seemed to him that there could 
be no more dreadful punishment than to see her 
again, and meet the silent reproach of that scorn- 
ful smile. He interdicted himself from thinking 
of her, and he no longer dared to think of Rose. 
The mocking dream had faded, and the holy, 
sweet reality had been banished by his fault. 
There was left to him, nothing, nothing only this 
child, .who, thank God, had need of him ; 
nothing, only a task which must be sufficient for 
his wounded feelings ; for self-devotion, much 
more than mere personal happiness is the end and 
object of our existence. 

Such was the sublime lesson that Bernard 
learned among the valleys of the Alps. Day by 
day he saw the same sun vainly cast its everlast- 
ing beams upon the immemorial snows which 
never melt ; he saw the unchanging verdure of 
the pines smile upon the Cyclopean ruin that the 


202 


Expiation. 


avalanche had torn in the mountain side, and the 
great waves of the lake, excited to fury by the 
storm, fall back tamed into repose and quiet. In- 
sensibly his troubled spirit was penetrated by the 
peace, the harmony, the grandeur of its sur- 
roundings. Passion, born of a flash and dissi- 
pated by a breath, seemed to him nothing more 
than a fit of delirium by the side of love which 
resists everything and survives all things. But 
that true love — he had cruelly wounded it, and 
felt that he was no longer worthy of it. 

Bernard’s whole life was now devoted to Dima, 
of whose condition he wrote every day apprizing 
M. Volonzoff. Their time was passed in the 
open air, often in a boat, rowing on the lake, a 
pastime which afforded the sick boy great pleas- 
ure. Lying on his cushions, he yielded himself 
to the gentle rocking of the little waves, while 
the oars, plied by his sturdy companion, struck 
the clear water with measured strokes. 

“ I do not regret now the amusements of other 
children, whom I used to envy so,” he would 
say. “ I would give them all up only to be here 
with you.” 

Sometimes they took a light carriage and 
drove over the by-roads, of which there are many 


Expiation . 


203 


in this frequented portion of the Alps. Dima pre- 
tended to have a great desire to climb with Ber- 
nard’s legs and see with his eyes. So he sent 
him to explore those elevations that were inac- 
cessible to him on account of his weakness, as if 
he comprehended the moral benefit that is de- 
rived from contending with the obstacles of 
nature, compared with which the accidents of 
our poor little lives are so mean and transitory. 
As we rise above the earth, the ghosts of times 
that are past and gone vanish like a wreath of 
smoke on the horizon, and the noxious exhala- 
tions of the world are under our feet, like the 
clouds that interposed between us and the pure 
ether while we were in the valley. The sadness 
that had lain so heavily on Bernard at his de- 
parture, passed away, and Dima’s watchful eye 
observed that he was regaining his old cheerful 
calmness. The rare flowers that his young friend 
had sent him to look for on the mountain tops 
were health, quiet and oblivion. Inured to 
every extremity of suffering in his own person, 
he could not bear to see a trace of it in his 
friend. As regards himself, on the other hand, 
he had learned to be resigned, and his intelli- 
gence was developing to such a degree as almost 


2©4 


Expiation. 


to cause alarm. Bernard could not help think- 
ing of those fruits which ripen too quickly and 
fall prematurely. The ardor of an affection that 
swayed them both to such an extent served to 
increase the anxiety which he felt on this score. 
Every time that he received a letter from the 
Count, he trembled with the fear that it con- 
tained the announcement of his coming, which 
would be for him the signal of separation. But 
M. Volonzoff seemed to be in no hurry to end 
his respite, beyond which Bernard could descry 
nothing but the anguish of another parting. He 
asked himself, What would there be left for him 
to do then ? 

His question did not remain long unanswered. 
That year of 1870 saw the outbreak of war be- 
tween France and Germany. The unwarranted 
hurrah of victory which we raised at the begin- 
ning of the struggle was immediately succeeded 
by the most overwhelming disaster. Like so 
many others, Bernard's love for his country had 
been weak so long as he thought her invincible ; 
when the day came that France was in danger, 
he felt that he was a Frenchman. The impossi- 
bility flashed upon him of his remaining any 
longer in this mountain retreat, outside of which 


Expiation. 


*05 


only the day before he had seen no place for 
himself in all the world, and the day after Reichs- 
hoffen he notified the Count of his intention to 
enlist. M. Volonzoff answered his letter in per- 
son ; he must have been much disturbed by Ber- 
nard’s resolve, for he did not lose a moment in 
coming to dissuade him from his purpose. He 
arrived unexpectedly at evening ; as he entered 
the low room of the chalet where the two friends 
were engaged in following the advance of the 
German troops on the map, Dima uttered a cry 
of joy, immediately followed by a sigh of disap- 
pointment : 

“ Where is Mamma ? ” 

“Your mother could not come just now/* 
shortly answered the Count. Then, turning to 
Bernard, he went on impetuously : “ Did you 
mean to ask for my advice ? ” 

Bernard shook his head. “ If I had asked 
you for advice, it would have presupposed in- 
decision.” 

“Your mind is made up then — you are resolved 
to commit a folly? Do you think that one recruit 
more will materially strengthen your army ? ” 

“ If every one looked at it in that light, no 
one would do his duty.” 


206 


Expiation. 


“ Do you believe that the French army, re- 
duced by its successes in Italy, as well as by its 
reverses in Mexico, is anything like that army 
which whipped us in the Crimea ?' In the state 
that it is now, without allies and without lead- 
ers, it will have no chance against a nation of 
fighters. It is doomed to defeat.” 

“ Even admitting that you are right, which I 
very much doubt, glory is not the only incentive 
to love of country.” 

“ But your patriotism is only a young man’s 
vanity. The poorest peasant will make better 
food for powder than an educated man like 
you, and his life is not so valuable.” 

“ I am no better than the peasant that you 
speak of. I hope that I shall fight as bravely as 
he would, and then I shall not have the fear of 
leaving a family unprovided for, which would 
harass him.” 

“ So the fact that you are alone in the world 
is what decides you ? ” said the Count in a 
changed voice. “If you had a mother to be 
seech you ” 

“ What is the use of forming suppositions?” 
said Bernard, looking his interlocutor in the 
face. “ My mother is dead.” 


Expiation. 


2 07 


“Would you disobey the orders of a father ?" 
said the Count with a violence of feeling that he 
hardly tried to conceal. 

“ If my father were alive, he would not exact 
that his son should disgrace himself by a coward- 
ly action." 

“ It is not cowardly to await the summons, 
instead of anticipating it." 

“You do not take into account, sir, that there 
is more due to my country from me than there 
is from other men. It adopted me from my 
birth, almost, and has been all in all to me, father 
and mother at once." 

M. Volonzoff bowed his head ; then, pointing 
to Dima, who had been a breathless witness of 
the scene : “ I thought that you loved him ! " 
said he reproachfully. Bernard’s only answer 
was to embrace the child. 

“ Go ! " cried Dima with energy. “ I would 
do as you are doing, if I were in your place, and 
I, too, will show that I am brave by giving you 
up. We shall meet again — I feel sure we shall ! 
I will wait for you." 

M. Volonzoff had turned away to conceal his 
emotion. “ He has instructed the boy in honor, 
too," he murmured. “You are two against one. 


Expiation . 


20 8 


Can I not do anything for you ? ” he added, 
addressing Bernard in mute anguish. 

“For me, nothing/’ replied Bernard; “but 
should I fall — don’t be afraid, Dima ; as you 
said, we shall meet again — if I should fall, there 
is one person in the world whom I should like to 
recommend to your protection. Who can foresee 
what will happen in a campaign ? The young 
girl is poor, with no one to befriend her. ...” 

“ I know whom you mean ; Mademoiselle 
Rose Aymes.” 

A gesture that escaped Bernard showed his 
surprise. 

“Chance placed your secrets in my hands. 
They are safe with me. You may depend upon 
me to do what you ask. And is that all that you 
have to say to me before you go away ? ” 

The two men looked each other in the eyes 
again. Bernard’s gaze expressed a silent prayer 
that could not be set in words. The Count an- 
swered it by opening wide his arms to his son 
without speaking. 


Expiation . 


209 


XIII. 


HE first thing that Bernard did when 
he reached Paris was to enlist in a 
regiment of the line. When by doing 
this he had reinstated himself in his own esteem, 
he felt courageous enough to do something that 
he could not have done before. He felt that he 
could now present himself before Rose, for he 
was commencing a new life, and was becoming 
worthy at least of her esteem. Full of that deep- 
seated and honestly earned^ contentment that 
arises from a duty accomplished, he bent his 
steps in the direction of the lonely quarter and 
the gloomy old house where she lived. When at 
a distance he descried the balcony, way up near 
the sky, from whence she used in old days to 
watch for his coming, a wealth of tender 
memories arose within him, while the more re- 
cent occurrences disappeared like a dream. No, 
they had never been parted ; he would soon hear 




210 


Expiation. 


her cheerful, ringing voice calling to him from 
the distance ; already he thought he heard it. 
As he was half way up the staircase, the con- 
cierge stopped him and asked where he was going. 
Mademoiselle Aymes, he told him, had left the 
house after her mother’s death, and was living in 
the country. 

“Her mother’s death!” Bernard repeated. 
He made enquiries about the lingering illness, 
which had not been unlooked for, to which 
Madame Aymes had succumbed. It was less 
the news of her death that upset him than Rose’s 
silence, the thought that he was so completely 
obliterated from her affection, from her memory, 
from her life. 

All the bright images which had so cheered 
him but a few moments ago died out, one by one, 
in presence of this heart-breaking evidence of 
her indifference. For a few minutes he was un- 
decided as to what he should do. Should he go 
to Madame Desaubiers ? He had no doubt that 
Rose was there. How would she receive him ? 
After all, he thought, I shall only trouble her a 
moment. I will go. The way there had never 
seemed to him so long, and yet he dreaded to 
reach the house. The sight of every well-known 


Expiation. 


211 


spot was a pang to him. Why is it that inani- 
mate objects always look the same, while our 
feelings change so ? 

Sending away the conveyance that had brought 
him thus far, he followed, as he had so often 
done before, the tow-path along the margin of 
the Seine ; there he had taken many a walk with 

Rose, there he had . Suddenly Bernard 

came to a halt. A few steps in advance he be- 
held a slender form clad in black. Her step 
had lost its old freedom and elasticity, but he 
still recognized her. She stood out in relief 
against the bright sunlight on the level strip of 
sand, which stretched away between its two mar- 
gins of turf like a long white ribbon. He was 
conscious of the weary droop of her head, of the 
black veil that concealed her tresses, of the neg- 
lected book that she held open in her hand. On 
the flowery slope of a little cove that he knew 
well, she stopped and seemed to look at some- 
thing ; perhaps a swallow, skimming the water 
in his swift flight, perhaps the reeds, concealing 
the slippery treacherous bank with their waving 
stalks ; but no, she was not conscious of any of 
these things, nor of anything else that was within 
her ken. She was saying to herself that here 


212 


Expiation. 


was the place where she had caught her first 
glimpses of that deceptive happiness in which 
she had trusted, as she trusted in her God, and 
that she would have waited for its fruition with 
a patience that nothing could have wearied, had 
not he, from whose hands she was to receive it, 
himself disabused her hopes. He saw her wipe 
away her tearl Ah ! how many tears had he 
caused her by his unfeeling abandonment of her, 
more bitter to her than death ! The blazing 
summer sun shot his fierce rays down on this 
sorrowful little black speck among the surround- 
ingbrightness, a mute protest, as it were, against 
the brilliant beauty of the landscape, but she 
would have been insensible to the flames of a 
seven times heated furnace ; perhaps she was un- 
conscious as well of the sound of hurrying foot- 
steps behind her ; she only turned when she felt 
a hand laid lightly upon her shoulder. Could it 
be the phantom which she had been invoking 
that now appeared before her ? She gave a weak 
cry, tottered, and would have fallen, had not 
Bernard supported her. 

u You were weeping," he said, not daring to 
press the hand which she had given him. Her 
only response was to point to her black dress. 


Expiation , 


213 


“ And you did not let me know ! How could 
you treat me as if I was a stranger ? The 
punishment was greater than the fault, however 
guilty I may have been. Rose, do you know 
what I was thinking of just now, before I met you? 
I was thinking that, no matter how hard I may 
try, I shall never accomplish anything good or 
great in this world, unless you give me the sup- 
port and assistance of your friendship. You 
were too hasty in depriving me of it ; I did not 
deserve to lose everything at a single blow.'’ 

“ You have always had my kindest feelings,” 
stammered Rose confusedly, “ and if I had 
thought that my friendship would have been an 

assistance to you, and not a burthen ” The 

poor girl checked herself, and a vivid blush 
overspread her features. It was tender feeling 
for him, and not anger or jealousy, that had 
prompted her to cease writing to him, and had 
enjoined upon Madame Desaubiers to refrain 
from mentioning her name in writing to him. 
Why should she step in and interfere with his 
new love ? The greatest pain of all would have 
been to know that she had inflicted on him the 
sufferings of remorse, or had even caused him 
one distressing recollection. If she could have 


%r~ 


214 


Expiation. 


obliterated herself and her feelings more com- 
pletely still, she would have done so ; but how 
could she tell him that ? 

“ I would at least like to have your pardon,” 
humbly said Bernard. 

She blushed again, and her habitually serious 
expression, which contrasted so singularly with 
her childish features, assumed an aspect of 
sternness. “ I have nothing to pardon ; you have 
not wronged me.” 

“ Do you mean that you hold the wrong I 
have done you in such utter scorn that you 
refuse to acknowledge its existence ? Ah ! I 
appeal from your pride to your compassion ; it 
will teach you kinder words ; reflect that what 
you say now will perhaps be the last words that 
I shall ever hear from your mouth.” 

“ The last words — what do you mean ? ” 

“ I have joined the army and am going to 
meet the Prussians. I am a soldier, passing his 
last free day at your side.” 

She did not wound his feelings by any ex- 
pression of astonishment. u It is well,” she only 
said, but extending to him, this time with 
warmth, her hand, which she allowed to linger 
in his own. Wordy protestations would have 


Expiation . 


21 $ 


found no favor with her and would have left her 
cold and incredulous ; her favorite proverb, 
which she lived up to, was, “ Deeds are better 
than words.” Actions alone had power to con- 
vince her, and this action of his seemed to her 
to be worthy of a man of feeling. 

“ And so,” she said in a gentler tone/ 4 you want 
me to pardon you. A resolution such as that 
which you have come to atones for many a fault ! 99 

“ But many a man makes this resolve without 
having any faults to atone for.” 

44 Yes, all will come to it, no doubt ; otherwise 
they would be less than men ; but the merit in 
your case is greater than it is with most.” 

44 Why so?” 

44 There were so many ties, so many interests, 
to detain you yonder in Switzerland.” 

44 You are mistaken,” quickly replied Bernard; 
4 4 you are mistaken, upon my word you are. Ah ! 
if I could only tell you all, if this secret did not 
concern others beside myself ” 

44 1 would not let you tell me,” the young girl 
feelingly interrupted ; 44 1 wish never to know it. 
There is but one thing that I care anything about: 
that you have done your duty to-day, and that 
you came to me to tell me about it.” 


2j6 


Expiation . 


“ I thank you ! How I am running into debt 
to you again, dear Rose ! ” 

“ Pay it to your country. We all owe every- 
thing to her.” 

“ But whether I live happily or die nobly, I have, 
and shall always have, need of you. Tell me that, 
if I never come back, you will think of me without 
anger or bitterness for the wrong I have done you.” 

“Of all the past I shall remember only one 
thing, and that is, how fondly I loved you,”' 
cried Rose, maidenly reserve yielding to a great 
wave of kindness. 

“ As a friend ? ” Bernard whispered. She was 
silent. “ Answer, Rose. Who can tell if we 
shall ever meet again as we are now ? ” 

“ No separation is eternal,” she said, fixing 
upon him her eyes that were so full of trust, “ I 
have felt that ever since my mother left me.” 

“ Ah, Rose ! If I should come back alive — 
and if you could love me ! ” 

a Come back ! ” she said, and the words con- 
tained every pardon and every promise. 

They went together to find Madame Desau- 
biers, and Rose explained what Bernard had 
done. And the return of the prodigal was never 
celebrated in grander style. 


Expiation. 


ai7 


XIV. 



[IOLENT emotions and unexpected 
visits now followed rapidly on each 
other’s heels in the little house that 
had so long stood peaceably by the water’s side. 
Bernard had scarcely got away to join his regi- 
ment when one morning old Mariette, her eyes 
still red with weeping over the young soldier’s 
departure, came hastening to her mistress with a 
wild look in her eyes, and announced that there 
was a magnificent gentleman down stairs, whom 
she did not know, and who had given her his 
card. Madame Desaubiers upon reading the 
name on the card trembled and became so pale 
that Mariette exclaimed : 

“ Madame is ill ! ” 

“ No,” she replied, with a quivering of the lips 
that bore but faint resemblance to a smile, “ it is 
nothing but surprise.” 

But it was something more than surprise, it 



2l8 


Expiation. 


was terror as well. “ Count Volonzoff ! ” And 
he was there, in her house ! What purpose could 
have brought him there ? It was no doubt to 
reproach her for having brought shame and 
trouble to his house by her romantic imprudence 
and seeming duplicity. A single sentence of 
Bernard had caused her the greatest perplexity : 

“ The Count knows all ! ” What answer could 
she make to his reproaches ? What justification 
had she. against what was, to all appearances, a 
base conspiracy ; against what was, under what- 
ever light it might be regarded, a wrong against 

him? — for nothing could have given her 

any right to impose on the father the presence 
of a son whom he had disowned. She could not 
rid herself of her responsibility by shifting it 
over upon blind destiny ; our will was given us 
that we might counteract, when necessary, the 
decrees of fate. What use had she made of her's ? 

These reflections distressed Madame D£sau- 
biers horribly, and at the same time overmastered 
the joy which she would otherwise have felt in 
beholding a face that for many a long year she 
had ceased to consider as being among the liv- 
ing. His every feature was engraved upon her 
heart, illuminated by that ideal halo which sur- 


Expiation. 


219 


rounds everything that has been long past and 
gone. And now, alas ! they were at last about 
to meet again, changed, no doubt, both of 
them, in more ways than one. His first words 
to her would be words of bitterness, and she, 
upon whom he had once looked with admiration 
and esteem, was to appear before him as an ac- 
cused person ! With faltering steps Madame 
Desaubiers descended the stairs that led to the 
drawing-room. When she reached the vestibule 
she hesitated again and stopped with her hand 
upon the door-knob. A sound which struck her 
ear tended to reassure her ; it was Rose’s voice; 
then she heard the tones of another voice which 
recalled the happiest days of her life, those rest- 
ful, well-filled evenings, when M. Volonzoff used 
to come and knock at that same door, putting 
behind him the great world for which a sincere 
attachment had for the time being inspired him 
with disgust. “ I have only to cross your thresh- 
old,” he was wont to say, “to feel that I am in 
the refreshing shade of your calmness and your 
goodness, my whole being penetrated by a de- 
licious sense of repose, like the devotee in his 
temple.” Reassured at last by the remembrance 
©f her old-time power over him, and by the 


220 


Expiation » 


thought that there was a third party present, she 
entered the room. 

M. Volonzoff had taken the place by the chirn- 
ney that he had always preferred of old. He 
was absently twisting a little agate chaplet around 
his fingers, as he had invariably been wont to do 
in those days, like most talkers, who are at a loss 
without a plaything of some kind in their hands. 

Madame Desaubiers might have thought that 
there had never been any break in the old rou- 
tine, so naturally did he return to it. Rose, mod- 
est and self-possessed, was seated at a short dis- 
tance from him, answering his questions briefly 
and to the point. Any one who knew how to read 
her thoughts in her eyes could easily have told 
that she was deeply interested in what he was 
saying, and profoundly sympathetic. When Ma- 
dame Desaubiers appeared and the stranger ad- 
vanced to meet her with outstretched hands, she 
arose discreetly and would have retired, but a 
slight gesture, which still did not escape M. Vol- 
onzoff, stopped her. 

“ In your absence, I have taken the liberty of 
presenting to Mademoiselle Aymes one of your 
old friends, and one of the best of them, I 
hope/' said the Count. “I am not mistaken in 


Expiation, 


22 I 


supposing this to be Mademoiselle Aymes, am 
I ? I should have known her, I think, even if I 
had not seen a certain miniature, which leaves 
me no room for doubt." He looked with inter- 
est toward the young girl, who was visibly 
moved at the mention of the love-token which 
she had formerly given Bernard. “You did 
well in not allowing her to leave the room ; for 
we shall need her concurrence in a plan which 
I propose to lay before you presently." 

The situation could never be difficult in the 
presence of a man like the Count. His readi- 
ness and his perfect ease of manner, if they 
were unavailing to restore to Madame D£sau- 
, biers the faculty of speech, at least rendered 
it easier for her to breathe and raise her 
eyes. 

It was he ; there could be no doubt as to his 
identity. The only change that the lapse of 
years had brought to him was to bring out 
.more strongly his resemblance to certain por- 
traits of Van Dyck and Velasquez, in which the 
haughty cavaliers seemed to have gained rather 
than to have lost by their being no longer young, 
thanks to their noble bearing, to their dignified 
carriage, and the strength and power clearly mani- 




Expiation. 


fested beneath their elegant forms. Madame Des- 
aubiers glanced rapidly at the mirror that 
faced her ; a woman is none the less a woman 
for her being a saint. As she looked, her fine 
features lighted up with something of their youth- 
ful beauty under the touching, wistful look that 
her eyes expressed. He, too, could look back 
into his thoughts and find her unchanged from 
his memories of her. Their conversation was 
serious and restrained on either side, but through 
it all there vibrated a note of deep affection. It 
is generally believed that love can be trans- 
formed to friendship at will. This is not the 
case when a worn-out love is in question, or 
when by love is meant that form of passion 
which is just as violent and just as selfish as 
hate. When the ups and downs of life bring 
together again two persons who have once been 
lovers, either absolute indifference, bitter hatred, 
or some painful emotion, whether it be regret 
or whether it be remorse, must be the feelings • 
that lie beneath those ashes that are partly ex- 
tinguished, or else grown wholly cold ; while on 
the other hand friendship is always the end and 
reward of a courageous struggle against an 
inclination which has been overcome, and the 


Expiation. 


223 


thought of which therefore carries with it no 
feeling of shame. 

In view, however, of the delicate circum- 
stances in which they were placed, there could 
not be entire unconstraint between them. Neither 
of them spoke of Bernard. Nevertheless they 
talked freely on every subject, and particularly 
on that which was of such distressing interest 
in those terrible days. The war and the ap- 
proaching siege afforded them an inexhaustible 
topic. 

“ And what do you intend to do ? ” M. Volon- 
zoff finally asked. “ You cannot stay here, in a 
country place like this, and wait for the Prussians 
to come. It is not a safe place for two women.’' 

“ It is my intention,” replied Madame Desau- 
biers, “to go into Paris before they close the 
gates. There will be the sick and wounded to 
take care of. Every woman has a duty plain be- 
fore her.” 

M. Volonzoff tried ineffectually to persuade 
her to seek refuge in the .provinces or abroad. 
Would she not come to Switzerland? He was 
wholly at her orders. 

“ You might as well try to make a soldier de- 
sert on the day of battle,” said she, shaking her 


224 


Expiation . 


head with the smile which he very well knew de- 
noted an unchangeable resolution. 

“ And is Mademoiselle Rose to go with you ? 
Young and delicate as she is ? ” 

“ Oh ! ” said Rose impetuously, “ there is 
nothing that I am not ready to undertake, nothing 
that I cannot go through, now ! ” 

“ Now ? ” the Count repeated. 

“ Yes,” Madame Desaubiers explained, “ hap- 
piness makes us fearless, and after having en- 
dured much suffering, Rose is happy now.” 

The young girl’s eyes sank under M. Volon- 
zoff’s penetrating look. 

“ Our strength,” said he, after a moment’s 
pause, “ is not always equal to our courage.” 

“ Alas l ” replied Madame Desaubiers, “ I have 
thought of that. She is nervous and impres- 
sionable, and her recent trials have nearly broken 
her down. No doubt she will suffer greatly from 
the privations that must be expected in a city in 
a state of siege.” 

“ I shall suffer in good company, and there 
will be plenty of it,” said Rose unconcernedly. 

“ You would soon be one of Madame D£sau- 
biers* sick folks,” said the Count, “and you 
would only be a care and hindrance to her. As 


Expiation. 


225 


I have been intrusted with the care of looking 
after you, Mademoiselle (possibly you may not 
be aware of it), I cannot give my consent to any 
such rash proceeding. Do you feel inclined 
toward deeds of charity ? Let me tell you of 
one which will take you away from Paris. There 
is a poor friendless, sick boy, who needs 
some one to console him in his grief for the 
loss of his only friend, of whom this wretched 
war has bereft him.” 

“ Your son?” ventured Rose. “ Oh ! I know 
him very well already, and I love him ! ” 

4 ‘ And he needs your love. You may be as- 
sured that nowhere could your tenderness and 
goodness find a better object for their employ- 
ment.” 

Rose was silent ; she seemed to hear Bernard’s 
voice appealing to her to say yes. 

“Well ! what is your answer?” urged M. Vo- 
lonzoff. “ I will take good care of you on the 
trip down there, you will have a place of safety 
in which to await the cessation of the storm, and 
afterward, if you require it, you shall have your 
freedom again. You will have done a good 
deed, and will have carried out,” he added with 
marked emphasis, “ the heart-felt desire of one 


226 


Expiation . 


who is fondly attached to you and who is now 
far away.” 

Rose requested time for reflection and con- 
sultation ; alleging this as her reason, she left 
the room as the Count was saying to Madame 
Desaubiers : 

“ And now, let us talk about him ! ” 

The ice was broken and any preliminary ex- 
planation was unnecessary ; she understood what 
he wanted,- and they talked at length of the past. 
She told him everything, from the day when she 
had received the abandoned child, standing by 
the bedside of his dying mother, and how the 
boy had grown up under her wing without her 
ever having detected in him a single impulse 
that was otherwise than good and noble. 

The Count listened eagerly, as if he would 
have put back the clock of time and regained 
that which he had lost ; he made minute inqui- 
ries, and seemed to understand by intuition any- 
thing that was omitted from the narrative, so that 
Madame Desaubiers stopped more than once to 
say : “ Why, you know him as well as I know 
him myself.” 

It was a delightful hour that, stolen from the 
cares and troubles of the present. However 


Expiation. 


227 


slight the ties which united them, they still had 
that interest in common which sanctifies love and 
makes it eternal, a child whom each could love 
and to whom each had equal claim, for Madame 
Desaubiers had been a mother to him in the high- 
est sense of the word ; she had developed his 
soul and formed his understanding. “ Our child,” 
she would say when mentioning Bernard, with 
an ingenuousness that an honest woman can dis- 
play, even when her hair is gray, without making 
herself ridiculous. But the Count, with great 
tenderness, would reply : 

u He is yours, yours only ; for you gave him 
your care during his childhood, and whatever he 
is, you have made him.” 

“ Ah ! ” said she, “ I should have been faith- 
less to my trust, if I had failed to teach him, 
above everything else, his duty toward you. 

“ Duty — to me ? He owes me no duty,” said 
M. Volonzoff, “ since I have neglected mine. If 
I could only hear him say that he does not hate 
me, that he can make some allowance for my 
neglect of him ! He is gone to risk his life, and 
I shall lose him at the very moment when he was 
restored to me ; it is only what I have deserved.” 

“ May God preserve him ! ” was Madame De- 


228 


Expiation. 


saubiers’ fervent prayer. “But consider, we 
must place our firm belief in that kingdom where 
whatever is obscure shall be made clear, and 
where those shall be reunited who have been 
separated by earthly accidents.” 

The Count sighed and shook his head. He 
was wanting in that great virtue of Faith, 
which carries with it its own reward, by afford- 
ing courage and consolation to those who pos- 
sess it. 

“Well ! ” said he, in reply to Madame Desau- 
biers’ heaven-ward glance, “ intercede for me 
with your God, who is about to condemn me, 
so nearly an old man, to bitter solitude ! If He 
can read all our thoughts, as you believe, He 
should pity me, for truly I am more wretched 
than you can imagine, more than I care to tell, 
wounded as I am at once in my pride, in my af- 
fection, in my honor. I have nothing left, noth- 
ing, nothing.” 

“ Ah, poor friend ! if you could but pray ! ” 
He made a gesture of impatience. “ But you 
will come to it yet,” said she. 

When alone with Rose after this conversation, 
Madame Desaubiers strongly urged her not to 
reject the offer which had been made her. 


Expiation . 


229 


The young girl hesitated. “ What, and meet 
that woman ! Perhaps live in the same house 
with her ! ” 

“ There can be nothing to distress you, or 
even embarrass you, in any hospitality which M. 
Yolonzoff may offer,” confidently replied the 
older woman. “ I do not fully understand what 
he is aiming at, but you may be sure that you 
can trust in his good faith and incur no risk in 
doing it.” 

“ He said that Bernard would approve of my 
going,” Rose thoughtfully remarked. 

Their deliberations ended in their to 

\he plan. 


Expiation . 


230 


XV. 


EVERAL months have passed. Ber* 
nard has returned, as he promised 
he would, but even Rose would have 
found it difficult to recognize him in the emaci- 
ated, swarthy, sad-faced man who stepped briskly 
ashore at Villeneuve one stormy evening from 
the Geneva boat. The worthy citizens who had 
been his travelling companions in the sail across 
the lake had whispered to each other : “ He is a 
French officer ! ” They had seen that same ex- 
pression on so many other faces that they had 
come to know it well. He gave them no opportu- 
nity, however, of entering into conversation; en- 
grossed in his thoughts, Bernard stood leaning 
against the bridge, communing with the lake, on 
whose dark surface he seemed to read a heart- 
rending and heroic story, his country’s and his 
own. The threatening West is red with the 
blood and fire of war. The black clouds passing 




Expiation . 


23 1 


with wild, quick flight over the rising waves are 
the devastating hordes of the invader. The 
great mirror shows him every one of the tragic 
episodes in which he has played his part. He 
sees the regiment to which he belonged sent to 
the front before the men had learned the manual; 
he sees prodigies of individual bravery achieved 
without result, for lack of that military educa- 
tion which produces discipline. He was a 
^iero in those days, as who indeed was not ! 
While the old army, the only army in fact, was 
held captive in Germany, the new troops, hastily 
levied, without arms, ammunition or clothing, 
stood and took their inevitable defeats. 

The food was insufficient; the fatigue of forced 
marches, the cold winter nights passed shelter- 
less in the snow, the disease that is engendered 
by such misery, cost more lives than did even 
shot and shell. Bernard had experienced all 
these sufferings, cold, hunger, want ; and what 
was bitterer yet, he had felt the rage and despair 
of surviving a disgrace that was worse than all 
else combined. Himself sorely wounded, he was 
forced to witness, sorrowfully and impotently, 
the death-struggle of France, and lying on his hos- 
pital cot, from which he prayed that he might 


2$2 


Expiation . 


never rise again, the dreadful sentence: — -“It is 
all over! ” — sounded in his ear. It rings there yet 
in the depths of his heart, like a funeral knell, but 
at the same time he hears a low and supplica- 
ting voice, Dima’s voice, urging him to hurry — 
and he fears to be too late. And so at last he 
steps on shore. 

It is a brilliant season at the lake, and the 
hotels are filled with tourists ; from all the pro- 
jecting balconies that adorn the front of the hotels 
and boarding houses comes the sound of con- 
versation in every language of Europe ; now and 
then the notes of the inevitable piano burst out 
and summon the English girls to more exercise : 
they climb all day and dance all night : others 
are walking by the lake-side, trying to find a 
breath of fresh air, for it has been very warm 
all day ; red and white wraps flit to and fro in 
the twilight, and the sound of stifled laughter indi- 
cates that flirtation is brisker when carried on 
in the open air than in the drawing-room. A 
belated excursion party makes its way down the 
rocks of Naye by the winding pathway of Re- 
courbes. Bernard has to stand aside and wait to 
let it pass ; there is a lively clatter of cracking 
whips, jingling bells, female cries and shrieks, and 


guides calling to their mules; he looks with 
amused impatience, dashed with a little contempt, 
upon the scatter-brained party that is so easily 
amused. But down yonder, nestling among a 
clump of larches, which rear their heads like 
funeral hangings under the lead-colored light of 
the storm, more like a child's toy in its fantas- 
tic outlines, is the Chalet from which he went 
forth a while ago, full of martial ardor, to answer 
the summons of the cannon which he seems to 
hear again to-day in the thunder reverberating 
among the mountains. How mournful and sul- 
len it sounds ! And the rain, which now begins 
to fall in slow drops, seems to him like tears. 

Catherine, Dima's old nurse, is sitting before 
the door. Bernard's fears oppress him : “There 
is nothing wrong ? " he asks. 

She shakes her head and points to a dog that 
lies stretched out at her feet, sleeping with his 
muzzle on his paws : “ He has whined all day, 
and that is a bad omen," says she. “ Our little 
dove is going to take his flight. Oh ! my God ! 
that he should be called away before me ! " 

She arises with what alacrity her great age 
permits and shows Bernard into the vestibule. 
As he puts foot in it, he hears these words pain- 


234 


Expiation . 


fully articulated from an adjoining room : “ I 
know his step ! ” 

Dima had been placed in this great room so 
that he might breathe more easily, and also that 
he might watch for the coming of his friend 
and be the first to welcome him. “ I want to 
speak to him before any one else does/* he 
keeps repeating, under the returning influence 
of his old time jealousy. 

There is not a breath of air stirring, and the 
windows are opened wide to admit the invigor- 
ating odor of the fir-trees ; still only a dim light 
falls upon the objects, animate and inanimate, in 
the room. Bernard imperfectly distinguishes 
M. Volonzoff, the doctor from Geneva, and a 
woman whom he does not dare to look at closely. 
She is using her fan to create a current of cooler 
air around the sick boy. At his approach they 
all draw back from the bed. 

“ It is he ! ” cries Dima, raising himself upon 
his elbow, and a hectic flush appears upon his 
cheeks. Bernard runs straight to the bed and 
wraps the wasted little form in his arms ; he 
feels his short, labored breath upon his cheek. 
“You have come at last! I told you that I 
would wait for you ! ” 


Expiation . 


*35 


They hold each other in a long embrace, then 
Bernard releases himself with all the gentleness 
at his command, and replaces the pale face, 
illuminated by an ecstatic smile, back upon its 
pillow. A lamp is brought in, which serves to 
disclose this smile, and also shows only too 
plainly the ravages of the disease. 

Bernard gives a start and trembles at the 
sound of a female voice close beside him : “ Do 
not fatigue him too much.” It is Rose, whom 
he had mistaken for the Countess in the uncer- 
tain evening light. 

“What 1 you here, Rose ? ” 

“She has tried her best to fill your place,” 
says the child, summoning up his remaining 
energy to make the pretty speech. 

“Do you not think,” said the Count, coming 
forward, “ that Mademoiselle Aym5s was better 
here than she could have been anywhere else ? I 
thought that I knew what you wanted, and I 
acted accordingly. While you were away, we 
cheered ourselves by hoping that we might greet 
your return by more than one pleasant surprise, 
but a stronger will than ours has decreed other- 
wise.” The Count's voice failed him as h« 
uttered these words. 


23^ 


Expiation. 


a Why do you talk like that ? ” Dima inter- 
rupted : “I do not wish that things should be 
different, and Mademoiselle Aymes, too, is satis- 
fied. She has been very good to me ! We talked 
a great deal about you, Bernard ; I could not 
have got along without her, and she must stay 
here always, although I shall not need any one’s 
assistance much longer ; but you are here ! ” 

“ You are talking too much,” says the doctor, 
and a spasm which convulses his patient shows 
that he is right. 

In the profound silence which now reigns, 
nothing is heard but the ticking of the clock 
and the echoes of the retreating storm. Bernard 
presses his lips to Rose’s hand and casts a look 
of thanks toward M. Volonzoff ; his heart is full 
to overflowing, but death, hovering about them 
and filling the room with his solemn, threaten- 
ing presence, checks any expression of his grati- 
tude or his love, 

Dima is the first to speak : “ How many 
things you must have to tell me ! and I too have 
a great deal to say to you. It seems as if there 
will never be time enough.” 

“ I will sit up with you to-night, if you would 
like to have me.” 


Expiation. 


*37 


“ Oh ! yes ! I should like so much to have 
you all to myself ! ” 

As every wish of Dima’s is a command, they 
are left alone together. As soon as the door is 
closed, he says to Bernard : ‘‘Raise me a little ; 
I do not breathe easily.” Bernard draws him to 
himself and places his head upon his shoulder, 
where he appears to rest contentedly. 

“ How beautiful the stars are ! ” the child 
sighs, turning his great eyes toward the dark- 
ness which is becoming more and more impene- 
trable ; no doubt his vision penetrates it and is 
conscious of things beyond, “ And that music, 
too ! Listen ! ” The storm had passed away, 
and the rippling melody of the waterfall is dis- 
tinctly audible, and from time to time there 
comes to them on the night air another sound 
of harmony, pure and liquid as the falling 
waters. “ It is mamma’s voice,” continues Dima 
joyfully ; “ it is so long since I have heard it ! 
I did not tell them so,” he said, pointing to the 
door with his trembling finger, “but I feel that I 
am going to meet mamma.” 

Can this be delirium ? Bernard trembles 
from head to foot as he asks : “ Is- she here ? ” 

“You know that she is not. The angels have 


23 s 


Expiation. 


taken her away. Hush ! Papa has only spoken 
of her to me once since I parted from her at 
Sestri ; then he told me that I would never see 
her again. I cried a great deal, but now that I 
have seen you again, there is nothing to keep me 
from going to meet her. If you could only 
come too ! Shall I have to wait for you long ? ” 
He lets his heavy head decline upon the shoul- 
der where it has been pillowed so many times, 
and shuts his eyes. Bernard forgets him for the 
moment. His thoughts are with Annette, who is 
no more. Can it be ? Is it possible that nothing 
remains of that dazzling beauty, of all those 
dangerous charms ? Can that form, so young, 
so overflowing with life, have become food for 
worms ? He tries to picture to himself the end 
of such a woman : Annette in sickness, Annette 
gradually wasting away beneath her sufferings. 
But no ! his imagination quickly turns and 
dwells upon another, the most dreadful of all 
pictures that can be conceived : suicide, the log- 
ical consequence of ill-directed passions, the 
last refuge for lives without principle and with- 
out faith, for violence and weakness. With all 
sense of responsibility gone, so to speak, so suc- 
cessful had she been in stifling conscience ; de- 


Expiation, 239 


ceived and led astray by her idle fancies ; with 
no firm anchorage ground, and her desire of 
pleasure unsatiated, although she saw its futil- 
ity ; she must at last have reached the abyss that 
yawns for us in our weariness and despair, and 
have seen no other way of putting an end to the 
evils that she had brought upon herself. Had 
she not said to him more than once: “The 
drama of life, to be interesting, should not be too 
long. I have reached the last act of mine, and 
I want it to touch the audience. Cleopatra’s asp, 
or Phaedra’s poison, would have no terrors for 
me at a pinch.” Probably she was not in earnest, 
but she had always been accustomed to treat the 
most serious affairs lightly. 

Thus under the influence of spectre-breeding 
night, and still more, tortured by the remorseful 
feeling that he might have been for something in 
the inception of this crime, the idea of suicide, that 
had gratuitously presented itself to Bernard’s im- 
agination, assumes the proportions of a dreadful 
reality. Scarcely conscious of what he does or 
says, he sits on the edge of Dima’s bed and me- 
chanically sustains the child. “ Wretch ! ” he 
says, addressing himself, “ you have considered 
only your own repose, your own conscience! 


240 


Expiation . 


What you called virtue was only selfishness 
and cruel obduracy. She loved you, and her 
blood is on your hands just as much as if you 
had struck her with a knife and slain her.” 

He had fled from her without looking back ; 
were she alive, perhaps, he would have hated 
her, but dead, she has become holy in his eyes. 
Bernard will not learn the whole disgusting truth 
for some time yet. Annette, seeing no better 
course for herself, and thirsting to be revenged 
on her husband, had prevailed on M. de Fossom- 
brone to run away with her. The severity of the 
Russian laws against crimes like hers having es- 
tranged her from her family and put a barrier 
between her and society, she pitched her tents in 
the east in company with her lover, who had al- 
ready begun to feel the embarrassment of so 
great a happiness. 

It is far better for Dima that he should think 
he is motherless. But what a night it is for 
Bernard, alone, save for the company of his hor- 
rible illusion and the child, already motionless 
as if he were in his coffin ! Only once again 
during the long night does he open his eyes, 
calling his friend by name : 

“ Do you believe what Catherine says, that I 


Expiation . 


» 4 * 


shall have wings up there ? Only think, wings !” 
repeats the poor helpless creature, with a yearn- 
ing for space and liberty that causes his frame 
to thrill. It was the last word he spoke, and 
when M. Volonzoff comes to relieve Bernard at 
daybreak, Dima seems to be sleeping peacefully. 

Bernard had gone to his room and thrown him- 
self on the bed that had been made ready for 
him, but he cannot sleep. There seems to be a 
mysterious presence in the room, something that 
floats about him and surrounds him, something 
like a loving little spirit, that has followed him 
there and lingers, unwilling to say farewell ; it 
seems to him that Dima is at his side and whis- 
pers in his ear. It may be so. The sun has 
hardly risen when old Catherine, her rigid feat- 
ures contracted in the solemnity and holiness of 
her grief, enters his room : “ Come ! ” 

Rose, her tears falling freely, is waiting for 
him ; she puts her arms around his neck. It is 
the Heaven-appointed mission of woman to as- 
suage our sufferings with the balm of their pity 
and the sweet consoling tenderness of their love. 
Rose gives him her first kiss in commiseration of 
his bereavement ; had he felt his loss less keenly 
he would not have received it then. 


242 


Expiation , 


4 4 Let us not lament over his deliverance,” she 
says ; “ his sufferings are ended, he passed away 
without awakening/* 

********* 

Morning, with its odorous freshness and its 
indescribable harmonies, enters the room be- 
tween the parted curtains, and fills it with floods 
of light. Are these crystalline vibrations which 
fill the blue transparent atmosphere of heaven or 
of earth ? Where does earth end ? Where does 
heaven begin ? Everything is pervaded by light 
and gladness. The burning bush of scripture 
blazes on every mountain side ; the majestic, 
towering summits are seen dimly through a 
golden mist which rises from the bosom of the 
sparkling lake that lies beneath, unruffled by a 
wave. Never was there a more resplendent 
glimpse into eternity and the infinite vouchsafed 
to mortal vision ; the glory of it is too great for 
the eye of man ; yet the glory, and the blessed- 
ness, and the beauty which are immortal, are still 
more faithfully depicted on the transfigured line- 
aments of him who so short a while ago was 
Dima. The sun wreathes his forehead with a 
saintly aureole, the wounded bird has found his 


Expiation. 


243 


wings, he is victorious over life. M. Volonzoff 
has at last bent the knee before the avenging 
God whose presence he recognizes by the side of 
this bed of death. He seems to be listening for 
something rather than praying, there, with his 
face covered by his hands. 

“ What could have been the reason of sum- 
moning him to earth, where he has suffered 
so ? ” he asks himself. “ What was it appointed 
that he should do, except suffer and endure? 
Is there such a thing as justice ? ” 

And a voice that he had never heard before 
answers : 

“ He was a stainless victim ; it was appointed 
that he should yield his life in loving and ex- 
piating, that he should bring together those who 
were separated and should be united, that he 
should fill the place of another until the time 
should come to yield it up.” 

The father understands ; he will obey. Slow- 
ly he turns toward Bernard, who has moved 
back a little, influenced by his grief for the 
dead and his respect for the living : he has met 
death on the battle-field in its most fearful forms, 
but never has he been affected like this, even 
when he had seen the arrow pointed at himself. 


244 


Expiation. 


M. Volonzoff signs to him to come forward : 

“We will submit/’ he says, endeavoring to 
restrain the sobs by which, spite of his efforts, 
his form continues to be shaken. “ It was 
Dima who brought you to me, Dima adjures 
you to pardon me my son l ” 


FINIS. 


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